


Hope's Lingering Madness

by ShadowObsessor01



Series: Madness of Hope [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Once Upon a Time (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And an interesting life, Awesome Howling Commandos, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Emma, BAMF Jefferson, Bucky Barnes Feels, Emma Swan is better adjusted, Eventual Mad Swan, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jefferson has Amnesia, Multiple Personalities, Murder, Original Character(s), Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Emma Swan, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 05:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 66,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8519521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowObsessor01/pseuds/ShadowObsessor01
Summary: The first time he meets her, she's twenty-eight and he is thirty-going-on-older-than-he-looks, but certainly as mad as she believes because two lives in one head is no fun tea party. The first time she meets him, she's eight and running from murderers while he...has no idea how old he is. It got lost somewhere among the brainwashing and freezer storage.They shouldn't be able to keep finding each other (his cage too small, her belief too little) but they do and each time the world burns and changes around them.A woman born in a land of magic but raised in a land of science, fierce and strong and broken with disbelief as her shield.A man born and raised in a land of magic cursed to a land of science only to fall in order to be born and raised again. Then he falls once more, freezing this time, in and out of the time-stream.They shouldn't work.Until they do.Or in other words: There is a lot more to Bucky's story than anyone realized, including himself. Most of which revolves around a certain golden haired Savior.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A new story, one that I plan very much so on finishing and with a sequel and third part planned already. This will be my first series story rather than the one shots that I'm more used to writing. It's panning out beautifully in my head, I just need to get it all down without losing my inspiration which is difficult as I am working now.
> 
> This is sort of a three way crossover if you count Captain America as its own (which FFN does) so I'm going to list it all here and let you decide: Captain America, Avengers (they will make an appearance I promise!) and Once Upon a Time.
> 
> The Inspiration for this story came when I was watching CA:TFA after having recently been on a OUAT splurge (the latest season was killer on my heart and nerves, I've got to say) and thinking again about how Jefferson and Bucky were essentially the same guy just different circumstances. So I did some searching and there is woefully little crossovers that explore this area of thinking. I found one maybe two where they are the same guy...I was very disappointed that no one else had really seemed to make a connection. So...I made my own.
> 
> Now, there will be some things that are different especially with the OUAT timeline (I have to play around with that one because that is where it starts and magic gives me a lot of play room) and I will be adding and emphasizing traits I see in the Jefferson/Bucky characters. However, this is fanfiction so I'm allowed to screw the timelines and plots a little bit (or a lot, depends on the circumstances and what I need to happen). Any flame reviews can march their little butts out of my story and know that I will be using the heat from said reviews to warm my coffee ( and de-frost Bucky, cause a hunk like that should only be on the ice if he's skating it).
> 
> Constructive reviews are much appreciated and will get little bonus previews from up-coming chapters. I'll be giving myself three weeks or so between updates in order to actually have a chapter for all of you.
> 
> Ja'ne and enjoy!
> 
> *This story is cross posted from my fanfiction account under the same name.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First (Second?) Meetings and the crazy madness that is magic.

**Flashback Key:**

_**Inner thoughts and word emphasis** _

**Bucky Thought Speech**

**Buchanan/Winter Thought Speech**

_Flashbacks_

_ Emma thinking _

“Talking”

 

 

 

 

 

**PROLOGUE:**

**EVEN ALONE, THERE IS STARLIGHT IN OUR HEARTS**

 

Everyday must end

But the night's our friend

Angels always send a star

When you're alone

 

At night when I'm alone

I lie awake and wonder

Which of them belongs to me

Which one I wonder?

 

And any star I choose

Watches over me

So I know I'm not alone

When I'm here on my own

 

Isn't that a wonder?

When you're alone

You're not alone

Not really alone

 

**WHEN YOU'RE ALONE – song by John Williams,**

**performed by Amber Scott and Karliene**

 

 

_**December 16, 1991** _

 

_The rather large forest surrounding the road leading to the Stark Mansion in Manhattan was quiet as it should be at that time of night. Snowfall was light and settled on the ground with a sound reminiscent to tissue paper being softly crumpled in a giant's hands. If one listened closely enough and was silent, far off in the woods, icicles snapping as they thawed and refroze can be heard. In a word, the night was peaceful. But as everyone knows, peaceful does not always equate to happiness and safety. On this night, two families become intertwined with a single lonely star. A broken star whose light is being crushed beneath a tentacled black hole. Despair not though, for these families and that star, because hope is always found in suffering. One might simply need to look harder to find its light._

_Going down the winding road is the first family. Howard and Maria Stark are driving to the airport, an important package in the trunk and an only child left behind in the mansion. A motorcyclist pulls up from the road behind and they think nothing of it, merely moving over slightly to give the rider more room._

_Maria has only a split second to see the gun from the corner of her eye. It's not enough time._

_The tire is blown and the car careens into the unwavering ancient trees around them. In a fight between metal and thick, tried and tested wood...the wood won. The engine block protected by the hood crumbles under the force of a speeding object colliding with an immovable object. Flames leap and dance and smoke, warming the frigid air that is pouring through the broken windows._

_Howard is disoriented, blood dribbling from glass cuts on his head, a headache pounding against his temples. He doesn't see the hand but he sees the blurry image of his car door being ripped from the twisted connections. He feels the strength of the grip that hauls him from his seat beside his wife. Her name is barely croaked from his lips before his nose snaps under a powerful fist. The roots of his hair scream in protest as he is yanked up to face his attacker._

_The winter chill cannot compare to the ice that seeps through his soul at the **impossibly familiar**_ _face his attacker bears. It's a face almost as familiar to Howard as his own, one he has seen thousands of times as the dark to the most courageous light he has had the pleasure knowing. Under normal circumstances, such a reunion would be a happy occasion. A good man believed long dead is alive, a miracle Howard never imagined was a possibility. Howard, however, is not a genius for show. The dots have connected and the theories confirmed as Barnes raises a **metal** fist to end his life. Howard doesn't doubt someone took out a hit on him and now his wife is paying for it as well. Fear courses through his blood when he catches gazes with dead blue eyes, no recognition and no morals to stay the wicked hand, but fear is also a terribly effective motivator so Howard tries to reach the man he wished he had known better if only to help a grieving friend. _

“Sergeant Barnes? _” It's raspy, more questioning than the conviction he had wished to achieve and it does absolutely nothing to stop the fist flying at his face. Yet before the pain of having bone cartilage shoved through his skull and into his brain, Howard sees a brief flicker. Barnes' face remains impenetrable and dead, but the eyes..._

_Those blue eyes that Howard had been told by many army nurses just sucked you in and held you in a warm embrace, like a sun warmed ocean on a hot summer day, blinked and from the ice that had long since frozen over the ocean, a warm ember flared._

_For the briefest of seconds, recognition, confusion, **horror** found their home in Barnes' eyes. Howard feels hope and sorrow; hope because there was proof that the good man who had walked beside Captain America into the gates of Hell time and again still lived in this frozen monster; sorrow because Howard is taking this knowledge with him to the grave. He is under no illusion that Maria would be allowed to live; it was the passenger side of the car that had the tire blown. Maria would surely have seen their attacker. _

_Pain flares and fires in his face - **I'm sorry, I'm sorry!** \- images of Maria and Tony flashing through his mind and it **hurts!** He hears Maria calling for him, the distress and pain oh so clear in her voice, so he opens his mouth to answer, to say her name one last time and tell her everything is going to be o – _

_The body is dragged and placed back into the driver seat with little gentleness. Maria chokes on her scream, seeing her husband's bloody face and hearing the footsteps crunching in the snow. That sound had never been closer to a Death Knell in all her years of enjoying walks through fresh snow. Maybe it is petty that in her last moments Maria finds herself hating a sound that was once so loved, but she doesn't care. Her husband is dead beside her left, her son in the mansion unaware of what is transpiring lays behind her, and the Grim Reaper stands at her right. Howard always told her never believe the stereotype but seeing the uniform of black and the silver metal, Maria believes that someone must because the evidence is there. She never stops calling for Howard, for Tony, her precious boy, **she's sorry, so incredibly so –**_

_The Asset continues its mission. It feels nothing about killing the woman, regrets nothing as it steals from a dead man, is not shamed when it shoots public property. It is a perfect unfeeling killing machine. HYDRA's Fist. The Winter Soldier. Tool._

_That is what it presents on the outside, for the view of his Handlers. The picture of nothing wrong, of a successful mission._

_Inside, something has broken loose. Inside, something is screaming rejection though whether the rejection is for killing the Target and Witness or rejection for what has become of it, the Asset does not know. But clearly it is malfunctioning. The Handlers must be alerted as is protocol, something that it knows has been done many times before even though it can't recall the specific details..._

_**So why does that cause it body to quake in a bone deep shudder?** _

**HUMAN! NOT A TOOL! NOT AN IT!**

_The Asset wants to clutch its-_ **HIS!** _head against the pain but showing weakness is forbidden, punishable with the Chair..._

**NO!NONONONONONO NOT THAT! NOT THAT!**

_So the Asset ignores the pain as it- **he** has always done, ignores the voice that screams and rages and fears, because the package must be brought to the Handlers and the malfunction in the Asset must be reported._

_I- **HE** doesn't want to go back to the Chair. However, any discrepancies in the Asset's performance will be noticed and so the voice must be reported. _

_The Asset **must**_ _report... **he must.**_

_The first family is left behind in smoldering ruins as the Asset, their killer, leaves as swiftly as he came, journeying further down the road into the woods. He must meet up with the Handlers and complete the mission._

_**Those are the orders that he must obey.** _

 

_~MOH~_

 

 

_In the same moment the Stark family is being destroyed, on the other side of the woods another family is experiencing horror. The family consists of two children, a husband and wife. Both children are not biologically related to the couple, rather, they are foster children. Both girls are only a few years apart and as different as fire and water. The older is of Mexican descent, with hair as black as coal and eyes a normally bright hazel. At twelve she is growing into great beauty but even she acknowledges that her younger foster sister has a greater inner strength. The youngest is as fair as the elder is dark, with gold spun hair and eyes of emerald. At eight, the youngest has seen more hardship then the eldest can imagine. It darkness the bright emerald with every strike of flesh against flesh, of every harsh word spoken in imagined slight, in withheld meals and locked doors. But the youngest smiles still, small bird like smiles that flitter across her face in the presence of the only good in this newest bad, a sister whom has no reason to care yet does still._

_The eldest has not been alone as long as the youngest, the horrors and hardships have not sunk their claws so deep yet that the kind heart her mother nourished has frozen and hardened. She nurses the youngest from the burns and cuts, kisses the scars and promises a better tomorrow. She lies and she knows the youngest realizes what she is doing but both take comfort in the fragile bloom called hope._

_They have only been a “family” for three months and the hardships far outweigh the good, as the youngest has come to expect, but as long as the girl she is coming to accept as a sister is beside her, this home could be bearable._

_It's a lightly snowing night and bitterly cold when the last of the youngest innocence is stripped in all but the most physically precious._

_The couple fostering the girls insisted in being called Madam and Sir, and their commands were gospel. Disobedience was disciplined in however they saw fit. The youngest had been in a few homes like theirs, but even she had never seen the true depth of the darkness contained within humanity._

_December 16, 1991 started as any other day in that household. The girls cooked and cleaned and took their punishments as silently as possible. However, unlike the day before and all the days since coming into this foster home, there was something different in the air. An extra hint of malice that strangled the air and froze the children's blood. Sir was watching them, as he always did, yet there was something in his eyes...._

_The eldest pulled the youngest close each time she could. Her mama had told her to be wary of the look in a man's eye that caused a pit seed to settle harsh and cold in her stomach. The attention of a man with that look was never for the good of those in his sight. She had never seen that look before but she knew it instinctively. If her smile was brighter than normal, if her eyes showed her fear, her beautiful, strong sister says nothing._

 

_~MOH~_

 

_Night has fallen, winter is setting in its frigid claws, and a blonde child runs for her life through a frozen forest. She shouldn't make noise, but she screams anyway. She can't breathe, but she sprints as fast as her legs can carry her. Tears blur her vision, she can't see the trees and bushes she collides with, but she runs because stopping means being caught and that means dying._

_Above her grief she registers Sir's angry curses and Madam's shrill shrieks. She acknowledges but all she hears is her sister's screams. Her shelter is gone. The sister she never realized she needed, the home she had searched for since birth, snuffed like one of Madam's candles._

_**IT'S NOT FAIR!** Her heart is broken, her Home is lost, and all she can do is run, run like a coward, run until she is caught. Maybe then the nightmare would end and she can go Home._

_She is jarred from her despair as her foot catches, twists, pitches her body forward onto the frigid blacktop of a mountain road. The points of contact on her body flame in pain with road burn. Those pains are miniscule however, when the cramps set in. She feels like her legs and sides are being pulled and pushed with white hot knives and she **can't breathe**. She knows there is a word for what she's feeling, the inability to draw breath, panic swelling in her small body. Lungs hitching, body and soul aching in tandem, she has never felt smaller. Like she is nothing but an ant waiting to be crushed under a giant's boot. Her limbs refuse to respond, spasms wriggling her muscles against her will. She knows she must keep running, she's not safe yet, but she **can't**. _

_**It hurts.** _

_**She's DONE.** Done being the strong one. Done putting on a brave face because crying gets punishment and no food and it's already been so long since she last ate. She wants to be safe._

_**Why can't she be saved for once?!** _

_Tiny wisps of steam rise and curl in the cold winter air from her overheated body and feeling more like an orphan than ever before, Emma cries. Great breathless sobs that sound both wet and raspy as drool mixes with snot and her overexerted lungs struggle with the demands her emotions place on them. She can't. She's eight and too young and why isn't she enough? Why?_

_**WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWH-** _

_The road under her vibrates and the rumbling purr of an engine grows in the quiet night. Emma knows she's in the middle of a road, should get out of the way or get run over, but she can't move._

_She can't move and she doesn't **care.**_

_Not anymore._

_Dead, shattered green eyes crack open against the crusted salt and stare at the approaching light._

_**No more...please...** _

 

_~MOH~_

 

_The Asset sees the obstacle in the road, dead eyes tracking as the motorcycle swerves around, close enough that the heat and speed ruffles the dirty gold strands._

_Unfeeling blue locks with broken green and the Voice. Shuts. Up._

_The connection is lost in the instant it's made but the effect spreads. A twisting churning mix of warmth spreads through the ice, familiarity and betrayal and hope and sadness and confusion mix in angry flares. The Asset doesn't understand what is happening, can't comprehend what it was that passed between the child and it-no-himself but it is important._

**Possibly more important than completing the Mission?**

_Hearing the Voice calmly question instead of screaming brought the Asset's attention back to the questions and feelings he has been experiencing since the confrontation with the Prime Target. He had been shocked, though due to his training his mission had not been compromised, that the Target knew him, had **named** him even, something the Asset had never realized he was missing until being presented with the knowledge of something BEFORE. There had also been a sense of familiarity, the type of which he experienced when around his handlers or on missions. He **knew** the Target like he knew the different spots on the body most reactive to pain. That shouldn't be possible as he would have been informed of any prior encounters. It was vital information that could sway the mission into success or failure. If the Target knew the Asset, then the probability of the Target knowing how the Asset worked increased. These sensations and facts lining up in his head are breaking apart everything he's known._

_Now there was the tiny body in the road behind him and he couldn't understand why a **child** , a little blonde girl, hammered in the breaking core of his programming. He didn't know how or why the child struck him, and not even the Voice seemed to understand what was happening. They just knew it was **important.**_

**What are you going to do about it?**

**Nichego. Missiya dolzhna byt' zavershena.**

**SCREW THE MISSION! Whoever that little girl is, she's important and you. WILL. NOT. _LEAVE HER._ Turn your ass around now or you will always regret it.**

**Vlastnaya.**

**If being bossy with myself means we turn this bike around, so be it.**

_The Asset paused for a long moment, the blurs speeding by slowly becoming recognizable as trees and bushes as the motorcycle slowed down then finally stops. All is quiet save for the calm breaths of the Asset, the clicking of the hot engine settling in the cold air, and the natural sounds of the forest around him. The program wars with the Voice, the first with fear while the second battles with a pleasant energized burning sensation. For long moments of time, the two waring forces are evenly matched, trading arguments seamlessly and at the speed of thought. Maybe it would have continued for hours, this back and forth struggle, until the Handlers came looking for their Tool. In some other universe, maybe he wouldn't feel conflicted because there wouldn't be a child on the road hammering at something he doesn't remember ever feeling before. This is not that universe. In this universe, the Asset is conflicted and neither decision seems the best course of action and so he waits, the idling engine vibrating almost soothingly beneath him._

_The scales tip up and down in his head, just waiting for the balance to tip in favor of either side._

_The scales crash down on one side._

_The Asset had caught a sound on the very edge of his hearing, a shrill, soft sound unlike anything he had grown accustomed to as he waited. It was swiftly followed by another sound, almost overlapping the first. Either sound would have tipped the balance, but both together? His blood boiled as he had never remembered feeling before and the Voice was **shrieking** profanities. They knew those sounds. Were heartbreaking intimate with those sound._

_Muffled screams of agony._

_Metal striking against flesh._

_Loose gravel and forest debris rocketed from underneath the tires as the motorcycle was gunned into a 180 turn from a complete standstill._

**NO! _NOT_ THIS _TIME!_**

 

_~MOH~_

 

_The brief warmth from the motorcycle was soothing against her chilled skin, loosening the goose-pimpled flesh from its tight frigid hold around her cuts. Emma stretched her neck a little bit, hoping to catch more of the cold's opposite, and opened her eyes, not really knowing when she had closed them to begin with, and saw blue. She had never seen a blue that particular shade except in the shadows snow hills cast, more grey than blue but intense in either case. Emma is also fairly certain she's seen more life in a dead fish's eyes than the rider had in his. It was like how she imagined space would be: a void so cold nothing survived. Then there was a spark, a flare that blazed like a supernova, before being sucked away once more into the void. Gone as soon as it lived. Emma is only eight but she knows something beautiful when she sees it and knows when something is broken because she is that and the man, the dead eyed rider, is both. A beautiful, broken man._

_If she had tears left, Emma would cry for him because the spark spoke of a good, kind soul but the void smothered it with a darkness to deep to escape from. Her Home couldn't escape the void, now this rider was the void seemingly against his soul. As it was, all Emma could do was listen to the rapidly fading engine growl as the man drove away, miss the warmth of the engine and the spark that flared in his eyes, and shiver in cold fear at the approaching footsteps._

_She wished the rider hadn't swerved around her. Death by speed collision sounded faster than whatever Sir and Madam planned for her now that she ran._

_She's also glad he didn't because then she might not have gotten to see his eyes. They were very lovely eyes despite the death in them. Something devastatingly pretty to take with her instead of her sister's sheet white face, slack and frozen forever in horrified pain._

_The engine is no longer discernible on the wind when Sir's large, rough hands grab her by the hair and jacket to drag her back into the woods. Emma struggles, every inch a fighter's soul, since she doesn't want to die even though she also does because then at least in death she is no longer hurt by the world. It's a token fight though. She's too cold, too weary, too much in pain to push enough against the hands of Sir to escape. That doesn't mean she rolls over. Sir is bleeding from multiple scratches on any patch of skin she could reach, his left eye swollen shut from where her nails came dangerously close to gauging his eye out. The bitter copper taste of blood lingers in her mouth from the chunks of flesh she had bitten off, hanging like a pitbull from wherever her teeth sank in. Her own blood mixes with the taste, several teeth loose from his fist and the split in her lip throbbing in time with her rabbit-fast heartbeat. It felt like every inch is one massive bruise but Emma won't scream, promises herself that she won't give them the satisfaction. They already heard her sister's screams, they won't get Emma's too._

_Madam gags Emma with a familiar blood stained scarf and Emma wants to puke, her stomach twists in preparation but she can't because there is no where for the stomach acids to go once it's in her mouth except maybe through her nose. It's a force of will and Emma has always been exceedingly stubborn. The worn winter coat Emma had put on earlier that evening is ripped from her body, her shirt following shortly after with the sleeves being used for rope to bind her hands behind her back. The cold makes her skin drum-tight and does little to actually numb the pain of bruises and cuts. Her pants stay on._

_Then she sees a flicker of silver as the moon catches on metal and there is no suppressing the full body flinch no matter how weak it makes her seem; Sir's belt buckle left **scars**._

_Emma screams by the third lash._

 

_~MOH~_

 

_The girl is gone from the road by the time the Asset makes it back to that point, however, the tracks are obvious and her screams are louder. If he had any true memory from BEFORE, he would most likely be thanking an invisible God for making the motorcycle one of those all-terrain types. Following the tracks through root infested woods was hard enough without really having to worry about crashing. In any case, it might not have mattered what type of bike it was, since the girl hadn't gone far. Or, as the scene indicated, dragged far._

_The Asset has always been a creature of calculation and instinct, trained to react to all outside variables in the course of searching for the optimal path towards completing his mission. He cannot recall ever reacting based on emotions though the Voice is vehement that they have and that most times it was **good**_ **.** _Whatever the case may have been once upon a forgotten time, the Asset lives in the now and his now is narrowed to the leather belt with a wet rust colored buckle swung high above an average man's head, pausing just long enough to give false hope to the child being beaten._

_It's mostly over in seconds._

_The gun is out in one smooth motion, a lifetime of training and practice give the action an air of mysticism as the weapon seemingly leaps from nothing into his hand. The belt hand is the first to go; the woman's dominate hand reaching for a gun at her waistband is the second. Each shot he sees the child flinch, but she has stopped screaming, replacing the muffled shrieks with whimpered groans. Now its the adults that are screaming, turning the air vile with the curses that spew from them. The bike lays on its side, melting the snow with its heat. He doesn't recall the leap from bike to ground nor the sound of the bike as it slid under its own momentum. It is an action he has done thousands of times before (the only explanation for why he registers the sounds and movements as familiar and therefore ignorable). The little girl is curled in a tight ball to his left and he **knows** how uncomfortable that position is on the arms, shoulders, and spine. Her blood runs sluggishly down the blue-white of the skin of her back, vermillion flowers slowing blooming in the snow under her._

_She's cradled gently in his arms, wrapped in his outer armor before the Asset has a chance to think about the consequences of her blood being found on his body. The Voice is whispering now, comforting her against the broken sobs continually ripping through her body and tearing open slowly closing wounds. Confusion is definitely the most prominent emotion pervading the Asset right now. Indignation and fear are there as well because he has no control over his body but somehow...rocking the fragile body is... **good**. He doesn't care at the moment, though he registers all the same, the man and woman making their escape. They won't get far. All that matters is the blonde girl quivering still but calmer in his arms, those infernal green eyes locked on his own grey ice. _

“Pochemu net nikakogo strakha v vashikh glazakh?” _The harsh Russian clip to the words is softened by the almost silent volume he spoke them in and the fact that he muttered the question into the lanky, sweat and dirt crusted hair. It's a legitimate question, one the Asset would never have the courage to ask the Handlers, but that does not stop him in this moment from asking because the one he is addressing is a child, not trained in any way that could terminate him (though he had noticed the status of the whipper's face, arms, and chest, somehow it doesn't bother him but rather causes a sensation not unlike he feels when accomplishing a tricky shot to take out a Target. He has no name for the feeling and the Voice is too occupied to question). There is no fear in her eyes when she looks at him; only the lingering shadows from her fear of punishment. She should be terrified of him. Yet she is not. **Why?** _

_Obvious too, is the fact that she has no idea what he asked. Yet, that in itself is... **okay**. For so long all he has spoken has been Russian, as demanded by his handlers. Now the language slips as easily from his tongue as water over oil and what falls isn't a mission report. It's new and a question without fear of reprimand and all utterly **his.** Had there been a mirror and had he the knowledge to understand, the Asset would see the spark that had flared so briefly on the road behind him has grown, fanning and roaring into a forest fire. There is no going back, not to his Handlers and not to HYDRA, not when this tiny enigma of sunshine and jade is trusting a killer to comfort and protect her. It would be so easy to snap her neck and leave her body for the hungry winter scavengers because **NO WITNESSES;** his fingers twitch with the left hand plates hissing almost inaudibly with the motion. Then she breathes, a warm puff of air against his throat where her head rests as she dozes, trust screaming from every action and reaction and he. Just. Can't. Because there is a warmth expanding from the inside that has nothing to do with physical temperature and all to do with the girl child whom has managed with just a look to do something not even HYDRA managed to accomplish in all his years as their FIST: break him to her will._

_So the Asset sits in the season of his namesake, unaffected by the cold and utterly at the disposal of a tiny civilian, and listens to her faltering story. When she speaks of her Sister-Home, summer blue and Irish red swims in his mind, fleeting like a Mayfly but solid and real. The pride and love is evident and he wants her to always sound like a smile. He can't remember the last time he wanted something. She speaks of Sir and Madam, of how they are not the first nor will they be the last, and he thinks of his Handlers, how similar the lifestyle is between the monster and the innocent. The fire explodes inside him, burning and consuming. He relishes in the heat, in the anger so different from the cool indifferent ice that is his reality. She talks as the living dead, no tone or inflection, as she describes the horrors she heard coming from her Sister-Home, the images burned forever of the body she had glimpsed in her escape. A broken, bloody doll stripped of her innocence and left discarded like yesterday's trash._

_It happens too fast for even the Asset to register. One moment, he is listening and **understanding** , the next he is being swept under a nuclear explosion of **RAGE** and **FURY**. The Asset remembers nothing else except blackness rising, swallowing him whole and red-rimmed trusting green eyes._

 

_~MOH~_

 

_Emma curls as tight as she can to the heater warmth of the dead eyed man, not caring that he had shot Sir and Madam without remorse, that the metal arm of his left hand could crush her like one of her old foster father's toothpicks. He's warm and he saved her and he's listening which is the greatest part in Emma's eyes. No one listens to her. At least, not the adults at the orphanage or her social worker or her teachers. Not truly listened. This man did. He gave every word tumbling from Emma's lips the utmost attention, like they meant something far more. For that alone, Emma could ignore the strange smell of him._

_Really, he smelled both bad and good. The sour scent of sweat that oddly enough always smelled like Mexican rice to Emma; bitter nose-wrinkling scent of melted plastic and rubber; leather and copper and another acrid scent she can't really identify. But underneath all the bad, he smelled faintly like autumn leaves and warm sweaters which is really a scent! Warm and fuzzy and gentle. Emma unashamedly buries her cold nose further into the polyester undershirt, chasing the good scents under the bad scents. It's comforting in a way Emma doesn't recall ever experiencing before._

_Then Emma tells him of Jolene, her Home that was taken from her, the story spewing from her like vomit does when she's sick and something in the dead eyed man shifts. Those large arms that had been holding her gently, protecting her, tightened to almost painful levels and his whole body starts to shudder around her. Emma saw a classmate seizure once, all flailing limbs and spittle and rolling eyes. Maybe that's what he would be doing if Emma wasn't curled against him. It feels like eternity before he stills and Emma is grateful because he was starting to scare her, but there is something different now. He doesn't feel the same. Before he gave off a feeling of death, of predatory stillness just waiting for the prey to cross his path. Now...Emma isn't sure how to describe it. It's like life entering the world in spring, something waking up that had been buried for months. A large calloused palm cards through her hair before she's being swept up and up and up as he unfurls from the sitting crouch he had taken._

_Emma remains silent though her tongue burns with questions. His eyes hold her tongue._

_He places her against the wheel of his motorcycle closest to the engine, letting the warmth of it wash over her. Emma stares. Before his eyes had been like black ice, clear and treacherous and cold, unfeeling silver. Now, Emma has never seen a kinder blue. It's blue cornflowers in spring and summer oceans on a bright day, blue bird feathers from the underbelly. There's a storm raging in the corners though, something he's keeping back from her._

“Stay here. I'll come back for ya.” _There's a faint accent she can't place but she's heard before._ “No matter what ya hear, you gotta stay put.” _She reaches for his hand, fear suddenly coursing through her, he can't leave her!_

“NO!”

_He smiles, a small upward twitch like he hasn't smiled in a very long time and has forgotten how, and cards warm fingers through her hair again. Calming her._

“I'll be back, Ozhestochennyye malen'kiy lebed'.”

_Then, he's gone._

_Emma had never really been scared of the woods before but this night? She huddles as close to the engine as she can, focusing on the clicking within as the components cool and settle, her nose buried in the armor jacket to chase the scent of autumn leaves and sweaters. She hums a lullaby song she had heard in a new movie that a friend's mother had taken her and Jolene to see, the words comforting and fitting. A security blanket against the screams echoing off the winter frozen trees._

And any star I choose

Watches over me

So I know I'm not alone

When I'm here on my own

 

_Sleep takes her after the fifth loop, the armor jacket warm and heavy around her. She's safe and her star is coming back, her very own blue bird of happiness._

 

~ _MOH~_

 

_She doesn't wake up until much later, when he is walking up to the front porch of a house she's never seen before. It looks like one of those old Victorian era homes she had seen in magazines (and absolutely loves because it's a type of house that screams hidden passageways and secret rooms she can hide away in) with some kind of light colored paint and a red door. The same red as her blue bird's star and now she is even more in love with the place. There's a sign that she can't quite make out in the dark so she turns her head to ask and stops. Because while she can't read the sign, the porch light is enough to see the blood splattered on his face and clumped in his hair. He had made some effort to clean off the red now flaky brown, but smears were still let behind._

_This is where the nuns at the Catholic orphanage would tell her to run and get away because she would be the next body. Emma has never been normal though for all that she wishes she was since then maybe, she would be worthy of a forever family. So she says nothing though she knows her eyes tell him that she sees what is there. Instead she works a hand free and points, the cold already biting into her warm flesh._

“What does the sign say?”

_His eyes flick to the side, hummingbird quick before returning to her._

“Saighdiúir tite Women's Sanctuary.”

“What does that mean? It's really pretty! What language is it?” _His eyes crinkle at the corners and that twitch smile is back and Emma realizes she's making him laugh. Her smile is bright with happiness because the spark is now a fire and that is so much better than dead fish._

“Irish Gaelic. Means fallen soldier.” _There is a rumble in his chest when he speaks, vibrating out against Emma's skin from the roughness. She really likes that. Like cuddling up to a purring cat._

“Why are we here?”

“Can't take...you with...me. Not safe.”

…. _Okay...what?_ _Emma froze for the moments it took to process, then she's moving, wriggling and twisting and almost causing him to drop her until she's at eye level at which point she settles. He's wide eyed, pupils pinpricks in ice and completely focused on Emma's own blazing green._

“NO! YOU CAN'T LEAVE!”

_He can't leave her! She's lost Jolene and she's never been wanted before and he LISTENS! He can't...he..he...can't....there's a thumb, cold metal and impossible smooth, wiping beneath her eyes and collecting the tears she hadn't realized were there. That makes it all the worse because this move is always in the movies and Emma knows what it means, that he won't stay. He'll leave like everyone always does. She cries harder and it's ridiculous because she should have cried herself dry by this point but somehow there always seems to be more._

“Wh-Why?!”

“Must. Handlers..will find. Kill. Make Asset kill...you.” _Emma doesn't stop crying. She doesn't know what an asset is but it sounds like his name and that is no name she's ever heard. She doesn't like it. At all. It's cold and hard and unfeeling and everything he had been but now isn't._

_The metal hand (which is cool when she thinks about it) slides up to the back of her head and pulls her face into the crook of his neck. Soft murmurs in some kind of harsh sounding language rolls in her ear and she can't understand what he says but she recognizes a phrase he's called her before. As her tears dry up and sleep pulls at her eyes, she accepts the inevitable. She can't keep him with her, but she does want something to have, to remember that this night happened._

“What is that phrase? Ouch-star-stalone my-slinky lee-bit...?” _He snorts. Honest to heaven snorts like a bull pig and it draws a giggle from her, tired sure but she's laughing and that is rare for Emma in and of itself. He seems surprised himself, blinking wide in somewhat concealed shock. Emma wonders if its been even longer for him since he laughed._

“Ozhestochennyye malen'kiy lebed'?” _She nods. It sounds better coming from him, rough and worn._ “Fierce little swan.” _and that is what she'll take with her. The twitch smile and the crinkle corner eyes and a last name that will make her a person. She'll be Emma Swan, fierce and proud for her blue bird._

“How do you say blue jay in that language?” _She can't make out his expression. Maybe he's startled or maybe he's mad._ _For several long moments he contemplates her, not saying a word which Emma is getting the distinct impression is the norm._

“Siniy soyka.” _He walks her through the pronunciation – Sin-knee-yee soy-kah – and it is so much easier than what he's dubbed her! If he must leave, she's gonna send him off with a blessing. Emma takes his face in her hands, makes him focus on her (not that he's stopped), gets him to understand that she is being very serious and speaks._

“May God bless you and keep you, His grace shine all around you. His Angels before and behind, above and below you. Stay safe, my siniy soyka.” _It was a blessing the nuns gave her every time she went to a new home. Now she will give it to her star, to protect him where he goes, against the monsters in his eyes and the shadows snapping at his back._

_Emma doesn't imagine the tear that falls down his scruffy cheek. If her arms squeeze around his neck in a fruitless attempt to fuse with him, he says nothing, merely circles her tighter with the tree trunks he calls arms._

_He's gone as quickly as he had come and Emma watches, standing on the porch in a one armed jacket that hangs around her ankle, until she can;t distinguish him from the shadows. She's not sure how long she stood there but eventually the cold chased her to the star red door which opens to a silver haired woman hastily tying a patchwork robe._

_Later Emma will wonder how that night wasn't Christmas or Christmas Eve. So many miracles had occurred. The woman, Ms. Charlotte_ “Call me Charlie” _Barnes, was one of the single most kind women Emma ever knew. If her age hadn't been against them, Ms. Charlie always assured Emma she would have adopted her. As it was, Emma had remained in Ms. Charlie's care for the best three weeks of her childhood, helping decorate for Christmas with the other women seeking sanctuary, and hearing stories of Christmas' past. Ms. Charlie's favorite stories were of her brothers and sisters, of the misadventures they had gotten into in 1930s and 40s Brooklyn. How her blood brother was her protector and her adopted brother was his driving wind. The two never separate from the other. Emma loved those stories the best, along with the other women, and Ms. Charlie never seemed to run out of fresh ones. But the one tale Emma never tired of, was the story Ms. Charlie told of her brothers, of how the one fought tooth and nail through enemy territory to rescue the other on the slightest chance he was alive and when the other was found and rescued, went back into the jaws of Hell to protect the brother reborn, losing his own life in the process. Emma could hear the pride and the sorrow, the overwhelming love and grief. Those stories become Emma's comfort throughout the years, repeating under her breath in unwelcoming houses the tales of bravery and mischief, love and sacrifice._

_When the police come, Ms. Charlie and the women of the sanctuary stand guard over Emma. Protecting her like they wished they had been. Sir and Madam were discovered and Jolene un-earthed from the grave someone had dug for her. Emma says nothing to the police about the black polyester shirt covering her sister's modesty. Claims innocent ignorance to the identity of her latest foster parents killer. She only recounts her escape and running to the road, how she followed it until she reached the Sanctuary. The whip marks came before her escape. She never saw Sir and Madam after she ran. The police detectives cannot refute her story. Ms. Charlie is allowed custody until her social worker can be contacted and investigated on charges of accomplice child abuse. The story is big in the news but Ms. Charlies is very sneaky about keeping her away. Emma doesn't really mind. She's not going back. Her star made sure of that._

_(Emma discovers years later what her siniy soyka had done to Sir and Madam. How Sir had his hands, eyes, ears and tongue removed, the wounds cauterized to prevent massive amounts of bleeding. Cause of death was he chocked on his own organ, which had been cut off and shoved down his throat. Madam also had her hands, eyes, ears and tongue removed, but her feet were missing as well and her heart carved from her chest. That last one had been the cause of her death. The police never found her heart. Both had been hung by their entrails above Jolene's grave, penance and revenge all at once, for the twelve year old girl violated and killed too young. Emma thinks Jolene would have been happy with Sir's and Madam's punishment; would have liked Emma's Siniy Soyka.)_

_Then Neal breaks her love and her baby boy shatters her heart and all she has left are stories and an ugly yellow bug. She has no where to turn, no money to get her anywhere. But an old number to the kindest woman she knows gives her hope, and Ms. Charlie's connections get her a job. Best of all, the job is in Tallahassee, Florida._

_Neal broke her love, but she still has hope that he will come back for her. Emma hates herself for that hope._

_Doesn't stop her from going._

_It was the best decision she could have made._

 

_~MOH~_

 

_They catch him three months after and the punishment is as bad as he imagined. Not that he remembers those three months of freedom or the reason why_ _**it** _ _was free to begin with. The Asset has no feelings. The Asset does not need freedom. The Asset is HYDRA's weapon and weapons are unthinking tools._

_It is put back into the tube, a mask sitting unnaturally over its mouth, and broken jade eyes watching it from the icy darkness._

 

_~MOH~_

 

No, there's no one else's eyes _  
_That could see into me _  
_No one else's arms can lift _  
_Lift me up so high _  
_Your love lifts me out of time _  
_And you know my heart by heart _  
  
_When you're one with the one you were meant to find _  
_Everything falls in place, all the stars align _  
_When you're touched by the cloud that has touched your soul _  
_Don't let go _  
_Someone comes into your life _  
_It's like they've been in your life forever __  


**HEART BY HEART – Demi Levato**

 

 

 

 

 

 

**March 25, 2012**

 

Emma Swan sits in her car, staring but not seeing the apartment building that had become as close to a home as she's only felt a handful of times in the past. She's happy that Regina's plan has been foiled (and she doesn't doubt for one nano-second that Regina was behind Mary-Margaret escaping her cell), her friend's reputation not further slandered. Henry is ecstatic for once, pleased as peaches when she asked to see the Story Book with a genuine desire instead of the tolerating indulgences she knows he notices. Emma though, beneath the happiness of getting one more over Regina and making her eldest happy, is terrifyingly numb. She had always dismissed the Story Book out of hand because there were a million and three other things to focus on and while Henry's fantasy of cursed small towns with Saviors of the blonde curl, bails-bond hunting variety, it is something good he can focus on that Regina can't take from him. There is no taking away an idea once it has been planted. Sure, one can change the color of the petals but the root seed? That always remains.

Now....?

Emma is having a harder time dismissing it as the fantasy of a ten year old boy seeking meaning for his crappy, convoluted life. When she had called Henry's bluff in her old Boston apartment, she semi-lied calling her ability to detect lies a super power. It's more like subconscious observations her mind makes after a life time of hard earned experience. But Henry is a little boy and super power is little boy speak for 'super awesome talent that must be paid all serious attention'. Emma has learned fairly well how to speak little boy in the past six years. There was a reason she was so good at her job and all of it laid in the eyes. The eyes are truly windows because Emma has only ever met a select few who could hide their true intentions from their eyes. Henry believes fully and that shows in the determined hazel rocks he wields against Emma's heart with surprising accuracy. But even Henry's belief wouldn't be enough for Emma. She's never put much stock in fate or destiny or any of that crap, but after last night and seeing how everything is lining up like dominoes?

Well, Emma has always been a sucker for bright ice blue eyes.

The Book is old and well loved but still in surprisingly good condition which meant Henry treated this better than most anything else he possessed. She doesn't read the stories (not yet) because those are not the tales she's searching for, not the story of a father and daughter separated due to the jealous machinations of a scorned woman. No, Emma skims the pictures, searching for anything that would disprove what she learned, would right her world once more from the topsy-turvy view. The pictures are of an absolutely terrible cartoon-ish quality, all blurred edges and abstract style, but despite that, the people in those pictures are crystal clear in who they are supposed to resemble. Mary-Margaret, Regina, Dr. Hopper, Ruby, Mr. Gold, all of them are in the book. All of them...

Even a blue eyed mad man.

It's there in front of her, printed in color abstract art. The hair is longer and wilder, the madness absent, but the love is there. The way he looks at Paige – _her name is Grace. Here it's Paige, but she's Grace. My Grace. –_ is how Emma had always wanted a father to look at her, with absolute love and adoration. Seeing this, Emma can't deny that there must be some grain of truth. The way his voice had broken when she had convinced him she believed (and she most definitely does NOT feel guilty about that. She doesn't!). But still...

_**Magic?** _

Super assassins on the run she can handle. Not-as-young-as-they-seem bar tenders Emma has the great fortune of having as pseudo family. Magic and curses are where she draws the line, despite how often her brothers try to convince her the supernatural is real. That was just stepping too far into fantasy for her already full plate to handle. Since arriving in Storybrooke, Emma hasn't had a moments rest to really absorb and take in the fact that her eldest son had _found_ her, had brought her home with him and was trying to kindle some kind of relationship. It wasn't easy, on any of them. Emma knows Henry himself is still somewhat in shock and more than likely a little -okay, a lot- hurt over the one factor in Emma's life she will never regret. The decision to give Henry up for adoption she will always regret (especially after meeting and getting to know the kind of woman, the kind of _**mother**_ , Regina is), even if it had been so that he could have a better life than what she could have given him at the time. Trusting Neal with her heart and letting him get the chance to crush it as he had, she will never forget or forgive. Henry was and is the **only** good thing that thief ever gave her.

Emma will never regret loving her Bluejay, never regret giving herself to the broken man who saved her as a child and again as a shattered, jaded young woman who was beginning to believe that love, maybe even a true kind of love, didn't exist. Not for her at any rate. While he too may have left her alone again, unlike with Neal, he had no control over going. That she believed fully. The ones who had broken him had found him, had taken him, and when she finds them, Emma will _**end**_ them.

It's as simple as that. A fact of Emma's life she defends and fights with her entire being to keep.

Jefferson has rocked that fact.

Emma's still not entirely sure how to react to the man. Last night feels like a dream or a nightmare she's had in the past, all looping swirls and time keeping rabbits, mad men and cheshire grins. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to find Jefferson and gather him into her arms until he believes that everything will be okay, that Regina won't win in her game with him, that Emma is sorry for clocking him over the head with a telescope and calling him crazy. But she also kind of wants to bean him over the head again, demanding to know why he sees her but also doesn't; to shake him and demand to know why he never came back for her if he had so obviously managed to escape; to explain to her why he looks like the man she loves and has lost. It makes no sense! How can Jefferson look and be so much like her Bluejay and **NOT** be him? Emma is no expert but she knows that even twins are not that much alike. Bluejay never had a child though, not that his memory is the most reliable of sources while Jefferson believes with every fiber that Paige is his daughter. So many questions and theories tumble and churn in her head that she can't get the answers for because...

Jefferson is gone. Emma had gone back to search for him, after Regina had left and Henry had been visited. There was no way he had gotten very far in the twenty seconds it had taken her and Mary-Margaret to get to the window. Yet he is gone and there was no sign of footprints that suggested he walked away. The hat sits in the backseat mocking her with every lopsided and uneven stitch. Taunting with its stillness. She's not entirely sure how that is accomplished, but seeing the hat on him, now that Jefferson has disappeared, the hat gives off this vague feeling of loss. It's crazy but Emma catches glimpses of it in the rear view mirror and remembers how smoothly he had put it on, practiced and fluid. She had been terrified and confused and shocked. The scar went _all the way around_ and that crazed self-deprecating tone was all Bluejay at his worst post-nightmare/flashback/panic attack. A man who is and isn't and doesn't know who he is only what he wants because what he wants will make everything make sense.

Emma watches the scene unfold in her memory: the mad scramble of a fight where he isn't the hunter she remembers but a scrapper she doesn't recognize, the scar that _had never been there before_ that glares with truth in front of Emma just as surely as the flesh-and-blood _left_ hand contradicts what she _knows_ is truth, Mary-Margaret showing off fighting skills she never expected from the mousy school teacher. Then the fall. Watching as the body so much alike and yet so devastatingly different folds over and punches through the second-story window, tumbling head first to the ground below. Seeing the halo of glass and that infernal hat but no body, no Jefferson who is Bluejay-but-not. It's almost worse, she thinks, than when her Bluejay disappeared for the last time, because for a moment, Emma had believed his story. Believed in the magic he spoke of, of the story he wove in her ear involving different realms and realities, of a daughter kept from him. She believed it all because those were the stories she told herself at night in all the different rooms that felt the same. That was the kind of story she read in Bluejay's eyes after a night of fever nightmares; the tales she wove for him when the demons kept them both awake. Where happily ever afters exist for the monsters and the unwanted, just as they do for the princes and princesses.

The biggest difference though, between Jefferson and Bluejay, is how absolutely _**young**_ the former's eyes look.

Suddenly the car is too cramped and enclosed and she is too far from the only gift that reminded her that Bluejay wasn't a figment. Emma is out and up and in without registering the journey; paying Ashley for her time is done on autopilot because all her focus is on the couch and the small form huddled under the Iron Man comforter. Sniffles and weak coughs greet her and it's the sweetest sound she's heard all day. There is no denying the grabbing hands that beckon for cuddles, fever bright chocolate eyes sending miserable love.

Emma shucks off her jacket and shoes to gather her youngest son close. Despite how alike most people thought the boys looked, they were only related through Emma. What that says about her, Emma doesn't care and frankly Regina has already tried. So long as her boys know that Emma loves them, that's all that matters. Because Emma doesn't love many and trusts even fewer. But for her boys she would burn the world, or make a hat and believe for a split second that magic is real just so he can live.

She falls asleep with the warmth of her son cradled to her chest and the same ice eyes in the same face with different souls beckoning her forward into dreams.

 

~ _MOH_ ~

 

In the split second between Mary-Margaret kicking Jefferson through the window to the ground two stories below, he _felt_ Emma believe with her entire soul, that magic was real and that somehow this lonely broken man with the desperate eyes of a father would survive the fall. Her belief was enough to activate the dormant magic flowing through the stitches and fabric her fingers had become so intimate with, but magic is unpredictable in this land fueled by belief and Emma is untrained in magic of any kind. Jefferson may not have magic like Regina or Rumpelstiltskin, but his family did have their own brand, a particular flavor of tea as it were. The result usually varied from member to member. Jefferson's father had been particularly silver-tongued and sticky of finger. His grandfather could work literal magic with fabrics according to Jefferson's great-aunt. Grace was shaping up to be a finder, an intuitive tracker that could have gotten her far in any realm. Jefferson's magic was that of survival and sight. He was often claimed by old colleagues that he was the luckiest bastard to ever thieve, surviving far longer than most would have imagined given who was his most frequent employer. Jefferson knew the truth lay in his genetic structure. He was stronger than most, quicker and smarter, able to adapt on the fly. _**Not that it helped when it truly mattered.**_ The sight was more the ability to perceive reality as it should be and as it could be. It was also something he hadn't been able to access at all since arriving in Storybrooke. Then Emma Swan came and everything was clear once more. He knew when she believed even for a moment. The threads holding the curse together, poisonous purple things that made him want to crawl out of his own skin and bathe in acid just to get rid of the feel of them wrapped around him, had unraveled from around the hat she made. The hat perched securely on his head. Maybe he would have felt happiness at succeeding where Henry has failed, or anger that her belief is genuine now instead of ten minutes ago when she committed the worst sin against him, but really all he felt was a pounding throb in his head and an echoing double drum beat from his spine and stomach. The wounds inflicted by Mary-Snow he could ignore, they weren't altogether terrible. His head wound however...that one was killing.

The result of Emma's untrained belief based magic is an unstable swirling vortex of time and space that Jefferson is not coherent enough to control, to guide the hat magic safely. He's too disoriented from the blow Emma had given to his head with the telescope and the subsequent fight between him, Emma, and Mary-Snow. Strong as Jefferson is, brass telescopes to the head will result in a concussion and traveling bodily through a window not ten minutes later after being punched and a croquet mallet to the back does not help in any form. Down into time he tumbled, his body tossed and torn in the winds, unraveled and unmade, until it was spat reborn onto the hard packed dirt of an abandoned lot.

Sorrowful, confused green eyes and a raggedy patched rabbit are his last memories before he sleeps the pain away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/9/17: So this is a revision. As in, I entirely re-wrote the prologue and am currently in the process of adding/re-writing the other chapters as well. Chapter two is currently in the works, chapter three is done, chapter four is not being tampered with, and Emma's chapter I am re-writing entirely...mostly. Some of the stuff I'll keep.  
> Let me know what you think of it!
> 
> No Muss, No Fuss, No Heads to Bust,  
> Leave a review, you know you must!  
> ....Please?
> 
> Translations (Provided kindly by Google. Feel free to correct me!)  
> Russian:  
> Nichego. Missiya dolzhna byt' zavershena: Nothing. Mission must be completed.  
> Vlastnaya: Bossy  
> "Pochemu net nikakogo strakha v vashikh glazakh?": "Why is there no fear in your eyes?"  
> Ozhestochennyye malen'kiy lebed': Fierce little swan  
> siniy soyka: blue jay
> 
> Irish Gaelic:  
> Saighdiúir tite: Fallen Soldier


	2. There I was Once, Here I am Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginnings of a hero, the rescue of a monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first Chapter, YAY! I really need to figure out a better way to add chapters to this site. So for those who have read this story before, you will notice this first chapter is wildly different. That is because I made an oops mistake. This first chapter you've read is actually the second chapter. EHEHHEEHEHE *blushes* I present the actual first chapter, here for your viewing!  
> Maybe now things will make sense?
> 
> "Indoor plumbing. It's gonna be big." To quote a certain Fate. ;)
> 
> In case I forgot in the prologue. I do not own Marvel or Disney so therefore I do not own these franchises, I'm just playing with them because I find them amazing. So this will be my disclaimer for the entire story unless something happens and I find myself the owner of one or both.
> 
> MARVEL and DISNEY Lawyers: "DREAM ON! NEVER GONNA HAPPEN!"
> 
> ME: *Pout* Oh fudge sticks.
> 
> Y'all lovely readers know what to do: Read and review! This poor author needs to know if my idea actually has any worth.
> 
>  
> 
> Translation:  
> “Khoroshiy kotenok ...” : Good kitten  
> Missiya ... Otchet missii ... Obrabotchiki mertv ... Esset pod ugrozu ... :Mission...mission report...Handlers dead...Asset compromised...  
> Menya zovut Emma Svon. YA mogu pomoch'. Khochesh' vyzvat' skoruyu pomoshch'? : My name is Emma Swan. I can help. Do you want me to call an ambulance?  
> NET! Net bol'nitse. Net vrachey. Net-net-net-net-net :NO! No hospital. No doctors. No...nononono  
> Khorosho, ne bol'nitsa. Mogu li ya prinesti vam vnutri vmesto etogo? Poluchite vas iz etogo dozhdya, po krayney mere? :Okay, no hospital. Can I bring you inside instead? Get you out of this rain at least?  
> Net! Nikakikh narkotikov! :No! No drugs!   
> Vous êtes presque en sécurité maintenant, Ombreux. Juste un peu plus loin.: You are almost safe now, Shadowed One. Just a little further.   
> Reste avec nous, Ombreux! : Stay with us, Shadowed one!

**CHAPTER ONE: THERE I WAS ONCE, HERE I AM NOW**

 

 

Here I am, This is me

I come into this world so wild and free

Here I am, So young and strong

Right here in the place where I belong

It's a new world

It's a new start

It's alive with the beating of a young heart

It's a new day, In a new land

And it's waiting for me

Here I am

**HERE I AM – BRYAN ADAMS**

 

 

 

~MOH~

 

**March 10, 1921**

 

A sound not unlike a gunshot shattered the silence of an abandoned lot. Had a passerby noticed the sound and looked within, the most unusual storm cloud would have appeared before their eyes; a storm of roiling wine purple clouds funneled upwards in a spiraling twister, kicking about dust and flora ripped from the ground. As suddenly as it came, however, the funnel just as swiftly disappeared, collapsing in on itself and leaving behind a tiny pale form amongst the settling debris.

For several long moments, the form neither moved nor made a sound to indicate life. A rapidly cooling night breeze wafted through the lot, stirring the grass and flowering weeds into dancing against naked skin. Coal black lashes curled and fluttered against lily skin, brief glimpses of blue ice play peek-a-boo with the outside world as the owner of such chilling oculars struggles to waken. Tiny fists rubbed and batted at the tickling sensation caused by unruly dark chocolate locks while soft whimpers escaped into the quiet air. Finally the last of the Sandman's hold rubbed away, leaving woken clarity behind. The small form slowly pushed itself upright, revealing a child of three or four years in age and as naked as the day of its birth. Swiveling slowly, ice blue eyes took in the surroundings, drinking in the growing darkness and the worn abandoned brick buildings on three sides. Goose flesh rose swiftly as the spring breeze persisted causing the small child to wrap thin arms around its torso for warmth. The effort wasn't enough and as fear began to settle in with the reaching shadows, the whimpers grew stronger and louder until wailing sobs echoed lonely through the lot accompanied only by the moaning wind.

Winifred Barnes did not normally walk this route home; then again, normally she had her strong new husband to escort her from her job at the local nursery. As this was not a normal day with her husband George being asked to work another shift and with money being tight this week due to a hospital visit earlier, taking a cab home was out of the question. So, being a Brooklyn born and bred woman, Winifred walked the familiar back alley streets of her childhood neighborhood, feeling a tad nostalgic with the news of the test results from said hospital visit. A child. She was pregnant already, after having only been married a few short months. George and she had not even had much of a chance to discuss children beyond that yes, they both wanted to be parents. Was six months after marriage to soon? Would she be a good mother, like her own had been? Could they even afford a child now when they still had payments from the wedding, not to mention the bills for their small apartment. Sure, both of them were working but eventually Winifred would have to quit in order to prepare for the baby and then raise it once the child was born.

Her fears clung and built, despite knowing that George would be ecstatic to learn of his impending fatherhood. Winifred knew that his lips would form reassurance while his own logical mind would spout her same fears and worries. What could they do? She wouldn't terminate the pregnancy, not because the act was frowned upon by society but because her own soul cried against such an act to an innocent soul. Children were precious gifts from God. Her fears may be swamping her logical mind, but perhaps, if she kept in mind that God had His hand in everything, she and George could make it through this unexpected blessing.

Resolve set, for the moment at least, Winifred begins walking with a renewed spring to her step, passing the lot her brother and friends used to play ball in as they grew up. At first she believed it was the wind crying through broken windows, but a strange movement from her peripheral caught her attention. Her feet are carrying her forward before her mind has registered the image.

A child. A toddler shivering and naked in the tall weeds, crying its-no, _his_ \- heart to pieces. Her own heart ached at the sight of such a young child abandoned. How anyone could be so – heartless as to abandon a child like this...Winifred could not imagine. The boy's lips were practically blue already! Moving softly and gently for she had no wish to startle the already terrified toddler, Winifred removed her coat and wrapped him in the warm cloth. Compassionate hazel met watery blue. There was so much intelligence in the boy's gaze, yet terror and sorrow tempered the sparkle that all children held. She could not leave him here. She would not! With the determination and compassion of a blooming young mother, Winifred Barnes gently scooped the boy into her arms and took him home to await her husband.

George Barnes expected to come home to his pretty young wife with a simple meal on the table and news regarding the hospital test results. He did not expect to see a waif of a child wrapped in Winifred's heirloom quilt sitting on the couch and staring into his soul with ancient eyes.

“Winni?!”

Winifred smoothed down her apron and mentally prepared herself to meet her love. The boy hadn't said anything in the few hours she had been with him, but he wasn't silent. He communicated with his eyes and hands, clinging to the jacket and Winifred herself while his old old old eyes took in everything around him as if for the first time. There was a quiet wonder in those blue eyes, a child's enthusiasm that she had feared was no where in this little boy who was already stealing her heart.

“George. Welcome home. How was your day?”

“Long. Mind explainin' why there is a little boy sittin' on our couch?” George wasn't angry, he could see how thin the child was and he knew his wife, knew that Winifred would never bring a stray child in unless there was no other option.

“I found him on my way home. He was all alone, abandoned in one of the old lots with no clothes or a blanket to keep him warm. George, he was crying! I couldn't leave him there to freeze to death.”

George took his crying wife into his arms, rubbing soothing circles while his own green eyes locked with the curious blue of Winifred's little rescue.

“I know, Love. You wouldn't be the woman I married and love if you 'ad continued walkin'. I'll stop by the precinct tomorrow and ask around, see if maybe he was...” he couldn't say _kidnapped_ , because like his wife, George Barnes believed that all children were precious and the very idea turned his stomach. He pulled away from Winifred, planting a soft kiss on her before making his way over to the boy.

George kneeled on the hardwood floor before the couch, hands clasped over his knees as he searched Little Rescue's face. He drank in the dark chocolate curls that brushed against pale skin, the wise old eyes that met his gaze with trepidation, curiosity, and a steel resolve George respected. The World had delivered this little boy a harsh blow, but he was already getting back up.

“Ya got a name, Lil' Rescue?”

The young couple's hearts broke at the slow shake. If they ever found out who did this...it would not be pleasant.

“Well, I can't go 'round callin' ya Little Rescue all the time. It's more of a nickname than a proper name, so we will just have to pick somethin' out, yeah?”

“George...are you saying he can stay?”

George Barnes looked at the tentative smile blossoming across the boy's face then over at the hopeful beam in his wife.

“Yeah, he can stay.” To say the kiss Winifred bestowed on her husband was toe curling was like saying the sky was blue and the universe revolved around the sun: a complete understatement. It promised many wonderful things for George in the future.

Looking from his wife to the child she had found, George couldn't help but see a complete picture. Maybe he was projecting his own wants and desires on the boy, because heaven knows George wanted a large family and so far it appeared that this tiny child had none to speak of, but he could see Winifred's loving heart hidden in the boy's eyes. Whatever the child would grow to be would be great, of that George held no doubt.

“So, now that we've established he's stayin', what are we going to call ya?” For a moment, the boy looked confused, as if he hadn't realized he was being addressed.

“What's you name, Sweetheart?” Winifred questioned gently, running a soft hand through the tangled curls of the boy's hair.

“N-na...name?” the croak in the stuttered word spoke of long hours screaming until the vocal chords were raw and almost incapable of making another sound. Winifred could weep anew from the implication.

“What do people call ya, Lil' Rescue?” George had to work against letting his anger show in his tone. For this precious boy's voice to sound as it did required countless hours of screaming at full volume, something he had only heard of in those experiencing great pain.

The boy's nose scrunched in thought, looking quite adorable in the couple's opinion, until the thoughtful look began to transform into one of fear.

“I-I....I dunno! No..no reme'er. I no rem'er!” tears began to pool and gather, tiny shoulders hitching with building sobs. Winifred and George moved onto the couch, arms circling and caging the distressed child.

“There, there, shh. It's alright.”

“Just means ya get to pick yer own name, yeah?”

Eyes puffy red with snot just beginning to dribble from a button nose, hope began returning to the bright blue eyes the Barnes couple were swiftly falling in love with.

“How about Robert?” The emphatic shake was answer enough.

“Luke?” Another shake.

“What about James?” This time, the boy considered the name, before giving a slow nod. Grins spread across three faces.

“Welcome to our home, James.”

 

~MOH~

 

George Barnes checked at the local precinct as he said he would for any reports regarding missing or kidnapped children. There was none, but the officer on duty promised to inform him if anything came up.

Nothing did; no calls, no worried family member seeking a little boy with curling untamed chocolate hair and haunted blue eyes. In a moment of fancy, George imagined the boy had appeared from thin air, like some sort of master magician just barely surviving his greatest trick. He knew it was a ridiculous notion, but one that was infinitely better than what was appearing to be the truth: of a child not much older than a infant babe left with no one to care whether he lived or died. As the months ticked by and Winifred's due date grew closer, George began to doubt there ever would be a call saying James' family had come for him. Not that he minded. James was a delightful child, intelligent and kind, strong yet gentle, everything George would have asked for in a son. Once James got past his shy reactions to Winifred and himself, it was almost difficult to stop the flow of questions. Winifred found James' inquisitive nature absolutely adorable.

Late at night, when the household was silent in sleep and George could hold his beloved wife while feeling the movement of their biological child moving in her womb, he prayed that James' family would never come. Even when George went to work exhausted and barely functioning from being kept up due to James suffering nightmares, the young man could not imagine giving up the little boy his wife had rescued all those months ago especially to a family that had abandoned him without a second thought. James had swiftly (and really without much struggle on the couple's part) wormed his way into their lives, their hearts, and their family. Neither of them could picture a future without the bright boy. They already considered James as theirs even after these few short months and having made the final wedding payments in the last month, they could afford to pay adoption fees if that was the direction James wished.

George and Winifred had discussed the options together and that was what they both wanted. Now they just needed to ask James himself.

 

~MOH~

 

November 6, 1921 saw the birth of Rebekah Juliette Barnes. Exhausted but deliriously happy to finally meet the child she had been baking, as it were (as far as James' questions were concerned, Winifred had a special oven inside her that only George and herself could operate but would result in a little playmate for the boy) Winifred Barnes gaze never shifted from the pink bundle in her arms. Until the bed shook with the force of James' leap up to get a better look at the 'baby pie'. George chuckled at the radical change from the once terrified and subdued child to this roiling ball of energy.

“Easy, Rescue. Gotta be gentle with her still. No rough housing until she's at least five and can throw a decent punch.”

James froze, cerulean sky oculars locked on the baby in Winifred's arms. There was a soft almost contemplative expression on his face that belied his youth.

“Girls...are um are like uh baby trees. They grow uh stronger or littler um uh with life. So I..I'm going to help uh make Re..ruh...um Becky stronger. Girls need um need 'tecting, but um not smotherin'.” James looked up at the two adults staring back a bit shell-shocked. For a three year old, that was surprisingly accurate.

“That....that's right, Sweetie. Since you are going to be Becky's big brother, it's your job to protect her and show her right from wrong.”

“Think you can handle it, Rescue?”

With all the seriousness a three or four year old could possess, James nodded as he offered his hand to the tiny fingers grasping at air. His face lit up like a field of fireflies, smitten and entirely wrapped around little Rebekah's finger.

 

~MOH~

 

Four months later on March 10 of 1922, James Buchanan Barnes was no longer an orphan with no memory. Now he was a son with a mother and father, an older brother to a pretty baby sister. James still had no memory of his life before and the doctors George and Winifred had taken him to theorized he may never being as young as he is, but now, with a proper family that wanted him and loved him, he didn't feel quite so...lost. The feeling of home was a heady one, a feeling James was bound and determined to protect at all costs. He may be three, bordering four, but he wasn't stupid. There was a feeling deep in his gut that whispered of family being snatched away from him, once - _"You don't abandon family."_ \- and he never wanted to feel that soul deep loneliness again. So he'll hold tight to this family that was loving him and he would protect it with everything he had within.

No matter the cost.

 

_~MOH~_

 

So far from who I was  
From who I love   
From who I want to be

  
So far from being free  
Of the past that's haunting me  
The future I just can't touch

 

And if you take my hand  
Please pull me from the dark  
And show me hope again

**So Far (feat. Arnor Dan) by Ólafur Arnalds**

 

**October 23, 2003**

**Tallahassee, Florida**

 

“I cried  
Never gonna hold the hand of another guy  
Too young for him they told her  
Waitin' for the love of a travelin' soldier  
Our love will never end  
Waitin' for the soldier to come back again  
Never more to be alone when the letter said  
A soldier's coming home”

 _Blond curls bouncing with a joy she is only just getting used to having, Emma Swan bowed to her mostly drunk but still sober enough to appreciate her efforts audience, put her guitar on the stand and exited the small corner stage._ _It was hard sometimes, to realize that two years had passed since Emma had held a growing child in her womb, given birth on her eighteenth birthday chained to the hospital bed and let go of the baby boy she had loved with all her heart. So damn hard to think of him growing up with loving parents and without Emma. She hated her birthday after that, couldn't think of it as anything but another day in her shitty life._

 _Then there were times where Emma could almost thank a God she doesn't believe in for putting such astounding people in her life. People like Ms. Charlie who must have been a saint in another life to put up with Emma's post-jail bull:_ “I can't tell you how many times I or my sisters had to go bailin' our brothers from the big house fer some fight or another. Lord, sent Ma into right fits each time; favorite part for me and my sisters was watchin' as she blistered their ears pink. I swear those boys did more prayin' durin' bein' arrested and all through her lectures than they ever did at Mass. Doncha worry your head over nothin' Emma-love. There are only two things I'm even remotely upset with: that boy of yours, though if he is still your boy, Hon, I'm gonna have words with you and second, the fact that you didn't call me to pick up your baby. I woulda taken care of the tyke til you got on your feet, you know that. No woman should have to give up their little one for the mistakes of the father.” _Her baby is a complication within a bullet wound that Emma refuses to talk about, even with her beloved Miss Charlie. The nerves are too raw on the memory of Neal and probably always would be._ _Thankfully for Emma's peace of mind, Miss Charlie has yet to dig into it, merely waits for Emma to come to her. For that and a hundred other reasons, Emma will forever associate motherhood and good old-fashioned mischief with Charlotte Barnes. If Emma could become half as sweet and a fraction as devious, she would be one happy old lady. To Emma, Charlie was just as much a star as her Siniy Soyka, guiding and prodding whether Emma liked it or not. However if Charlie hadn't, Emma would never have met the men she would call honorary uncles. Tom Dugan and John Morita are good friends of Charlie and supposedly the grandsons of the famous Commandos. Emma believes that story about as much as she believes magic. But she loves them all the same which was something she never expected to have again after Neal._

“Ya know, I was just tellin' Fresno that it seems every time ya step up on that stage, your voice gets that bit better. I mean, ya started out soundin' like a neutered tom cat in a downpour and now ya can pass off as almost songbird like...if yer audience was hard of hearin' and ten sheets to the wind.”

“Your support is overwhelming, Tom. Truly.”

“I'm just sayin' that ya haven't quite reached my professional level yet.”

“Which level would that be, Ace? Gravel in a blender or..”

“Lydia Neeson's love cakes for her Cupcake in the garbage disposal?” _Getting a bear of a man like Tom to blush fire engine red is a personal accomplishment of Emma's. John had been bombarded with his favorite sweets for a month after he shared with Emma the little tidbit about Tom's not-so-secret secret admirer. Lydia was an absolute sweetheart in Emma's opinion and the fact that she had set her sights on eternal bachelor Tom was one of the greatest things Emma has ever seen. The only problem is that she couldn't cook or bake to save a life. In fact, more often than not, her attempts ended up being poisonous._

“Aw shut it, ya lil' shits. Doncha have a couple a bags of trash to take out with your name on 'em, Princess? And you Frez, have food orders to make 'fore the rabble riot. _Again._ ”

“That was one time. One! And it wasn't even my fault so why you keep bringing it up, I don't know.”

_Emma wouldn't trade this life for much of anything else. Getting her baby back would be the only reason to give up the mother figure she never got to keep, the men she adored despite the lies about their age. Dodging the half-hearted swipe aimed at her head (she is not going to comment on the obvious man-crush Tom has on a certain NCIS Team Leader....well, not until the most opportune moment), Emma laughed as she picked up the two large trash bags at the backdoor._

“Only princess around here is you, Tom!” _a parting salvo as she exits, John's deadpanned jump shot remark_ “She's got your number, Ace.” _a normalcy that Emma is beginning to love._

_The rain that had been falling all day has slowed to a barely noticeable drizzle, like snowflake kisses on her skin. Best part about the rain was that it washed away the stench of the diner's dumpster. Florida heat plus decomposing trash and empty bottles? Not roses and jasmine in Emma's opinion. But the rain makes it bearable so she takes a moment to bask in the quiet and the rain, lets it wash away the memories of Before._

“Mrrreeow” _blinking back from the fugue state she had fallen into, Emma looked down at the source of the sudden pressure on her boots. The absolute clearest blue-green eyes stare up at her from the tiniest furry face, whiskers wet and drooping. She'll deny the coo to her dying breath. Even if the little critter totally deserved to be cooed at, looking as adorable as it does. Emma crouched down slowly, holding a single finger out for the kitten to sniff._

“Well, aren't you the cutest thing. What are you doing out in the rain, little one? Do you want to come inside? I can promise you a nice dry spot next to the ovens and maybe even a few pieces of tuna. John is a total sucker for cute whiskers like you. Tom though, is a mean, nasty dog lover so you will want to steer clear of him.” _The kitten really is one of the cutest of the species she has seen to date. Covered in gun grey fur with stripes of black tribal marking the tea cup sized body, the kitten's eyes were almost comically large. Emma was a goner before she even knew she was falling. Apparently the kitten didn't share her feelings of destiny. After sniffing her finger and giving a general air of acceptance, Emma reached out to scoop it up and ended up almost falling flat on her face when it darted out of reach._

“HEY!” _More startled than angry, Emma watched incredulously as the kitten_ _ **pranced**_ _further down the alley, stopping half way past the dumpster to turn and look at Emma. Now she has never really believed in the whole random-animal-miracle stories that often depicted a Lassie character guiding John Doe to a damsel in distress. They are nice stories, something to inspire the warm and fuzzy during a depressing period in the reader's life, but without definitive proof, Emma always believed them to be fantasy. There is a voice in her head, sounding suspiciously like Miss Charlie, saying something along the lines of_ _Ya believe those stories now?_

 _Yeah, Emma is starting to believe that there is a bit of truth to those because the kitten is coming back towards Emma before retreating to the spot it left, meowing and regarding her like she was three cards shy of a full deck._ _ Ooookay... _

“I'm guessing you want me to follow. Okay, I'll play but I swear if this is some joke of Dean's, he's getting hot beer and salty pie for a month of visits.” _Feeling very much like an idiot, Emma followed the honest to heaven_ _ **bouncing**_ _kitten through the storm dark alley until it disappeared into a shadow and fell silent. Now, Emma is no fainting virgin. One of Tom's favorite things to call her was a tough-as-an-iron maiden gal. All that to say, Emma is getting a very bad feeling about this whole endeavor._

“Here kitty kitty~”

“Yerwoeew”

_Emma turns, eyes searching the alley floor for the spunky creature –_

“Khoroshiy kotenok ...”

_and freezes at the sound of the soft words in the otherwise quiet night. Jade eyes followed the black outline of large combat boots up over knees the size of coconuts connected to legs roughly the size of Tom's bicep, ogling the barrel chest saran-wrapped sinfully in leather and buckles, catching on a barest peak of silver extending from his left shoulder before finally focusing on the shadow hidden face. Emma can be honest with herself, despite being shrouded, the features of the man were clear enough to arrest her for one long embarrassing moment. A square jaw with a frankly adorable cleft chin covered in stubble. Dark hair of an indiscernible color plastered streaks of ink to pale skin while eyebrows made for brooding hovered over intense eyes made of ice chips._

_Slowly, ever so carefully, Emma crouched down, never taking her eyes off his. She knew those eyes, somewhere or some when in her life, those eyes had found a home in her memory. Broken and dead as they are. Right now though, the familiarity was not her most pressing concern. There was a suspicious rattle sound just on the edge of her hearing, coming and going in uneven spurts that matched the barely noticeable breathing pattern, and now that she was on eye level, his eyes weren't actually intense in the way she had first imagined. Instead, they weren't focusing like they should, more following her movements with a glazed fear than actually taking in what they saw. What Emma mistook for intensity was actually a brightness she only saw in those with extremely high fevers. Whoever this man was, something was seriously wrong._

“Hi. My name's Emma Swan. Do you need help?” _it takes the kitten prodding and licking at the man's cheek from its vantage point on his shoulder to get him to reply. How Emma hadn't seen the fuzzball perched like a pirate's parrot she's going to attribute to the fact that the man's hair hid the grey fur and the man himself warranted her attention more than a by all accounts healthy kitten._

“Missiya ... Otchet missii ... Obrabotchiki mertv ... Esset skomprometirovany ..” _Emma hurt just listening to him, to the scratchy quality of a voice not often used for anything but screaming, to the words that spoke of a horror she will never be able to understand. Since she had started working as a waitress for Tom and John's roadhouse diner, Charlie and the men had cajoled Emma into taking online courses for her High School Diploma. As such, where others would have taken Spanish, Emma decided on a dual language course of Russian and Irish Gaelic with Charlie as her teacher for the latter and another friend, Michael Jones, for the former. Both languages were for reasons she never explained. Now she was glad she decided to take those languages. Emma reached her hand out slowly, wanting to brush the locks of hair away so she could get a better picture and discretely check his temperature._

“Menya zovut Emma Svon. YA mogu pomoch'. Vy khotite, chtoby ya vyzvat' skoruyu?” _Her accent is terrible but Jones always said she was mostly understandable so long as she went slow and enunciated her words carefully. Emma isn't even going to attempt speed talking with this man. He doesn't seem to be in any condition to follow fast conversation._

_The hand appearing like magic to crush the wrist bones of her approaching hand belied her belief at his complete lack of coordination and strength._

“Vse normal'no! YA drug. Druzhelyubnyy. YA ne prichinyu tebe vreda. YA obeshchayu, chto ya ne zdes', chtoby prichinit' vam vred. Prosto, chtoby pomoch'. Pomogite.” _Emma was so buying Jones a whole case of his favorite whiskey, after she got her hand back. Telegraphing her movement, Emma ran the fingers of her free hand over the clammy skin of his knuckles, light and calming._

“NET! Net bol'nitse. Net vrachey. Net-net-net-net-net...” _he was frantic, pushing himself up from the semi-slouched position and earning himself a scolding meow from the kitten. He didn't try to run though and that told Emma what he wasn't saying with words. He_ _ **couldn't run.**_

“Khorosho, ne bol'nitsa. Mogu li ya prinesti vam vnutri vmesto etogo? Poluchite vas iz etogo dozhdya, po krayney mere?” _For a long moment, concerned jade held glacier blue. Then, inch by careful inch, the steel trap around her wrist loosened until it finally let go altogether. Emma continued the staring contest, letting him see whatever he needed to assure himself that she wasn't lying, that she really did just want to help._

“H..Help?” _Emma felt fit to burst trying to keep the bright grin inside._

“Yes! Help. I want to help you.”

“I..I don't....keep seeing faces...voices...hurts....” _She had to lean closer to hear the last part as his voice dropped beyond her hearing register. Emma wasn't going to have a heart by the end of this if he kept making comments like that._

“Okay. I'm pretty sure we have some pain meds in the cabinet--” _He surged forward again, this time forcing Emma down onto her back. There was an erratic wildness Emma had only ever seen in the various pets of some of the worst homes. An animal that had been beat one too many times by a deceiving hand._

“NO! Net! Nikakikh narkotikov!”

 _She had to tread carefully. Keeping her hands in his line of sight, Emma placed them on his arms, the right frighteningly warm while the left is rigid and bitingly cold with a surface like metal, carefully rubbing up and down as she tried to sooth the tremors she could feel. She never let her eyes stray from his. Didn't let herself dwell on the sound of grinding gears dangerously close to her right ear. Emma pushed every ounce of calm she_ _**wasn't** _ _truly feeling into her voice and the muscles of her face. She's as harmless as the kitten, really._

“Okay, no drugs. How about a warm bath instead? Clean out any dirt and bacteria, warm up your body. A nice hot meal, a soft bed...well, I say soft. It's kind of hard actually.” _She keeps talking, voice low and even, ignoring the water creeping through the back of her clothes and the warmth soaking through her front..._ _wait_ _..._

 _Under his eyes, Emma moved one hand to probe at the sticky warmth spreading across her abdomen._ _ No _ .... _Wide, fearful green eyes snapped up toward rapidly dimming blue._

“You're bleeding!”

_He shook his head, much like a pup would after receiving a knock in the head, spraying Emma with droplets of water. The kitten was meowing insistingly, pawing at the large hand by Emma's ear. Without thinking, Emma cupped his face, stilling the ever increasing speed of his shaking head._

“Hey, hey...Take it from someone with experience, making yourself dizzy while suffering from blood loss is not a good idea. Can you stand?” _He breathed for a long moment while his eyes closed._

“Da..yes.” _Despite the pain he must be in, he still managed to make getting to his feet look graceful. Emma kind of hated him for that. But he was swaying dangerously so any feelings of envy got pushed to the back of her mind as she scrambled to her own feet._

“Easy. Okay, just lean on me if you start to fall.It's not far, down at the other end of the alley. We can make it.”

 _One step at a time, Emma led tall, dark and wounded back towards the safety of the diner's kitchen. They were making steady progress, the kitten prancing in front and around them, when he stopped. Emma turned, a question on her lips and just barely managed to catch him as his knees buckled. He was massively heavy and really, Emma should have expected that from how_ _**big** _ _he is, not that it would have mattered had she been prepared. He's out cold and not responding to her light taps on his cheek._

“TOM! JOHN!” _Emma kneeled at his side, brushing his hair from his face because that was all she could do, worry and fret until help came. He groans, twisting half-heartedly away from her icy fingers but still remains firmly under the claws of sleep._ “Shh..It's okay, everything is going to be okay. Stay with me. Just stay with me. TOM! JOHN! HELP!”

_The world is blurring in her eyes but she doesn't dare let go to wipe away the moisture she knows is spilling. He might disappear again if she lets go. Here in the light cast by the single outdoor light fixture, all the suspicions she hadn't let herself believe are confirmed. The man was her bluebird, Siniy Soyka, her childhood rescuer with eyes like a beached fish and a soul of shattered strength. Her guiding star in a cruel world. He had left her as a child, with no idea if she would ever see him again but with a deep sense of foreboding on his behalf. Now here he was, same as last time, appearing out of the shadow night. The only difference is that she is the healthy one and he is suffering from wounds she can't see._

_The backdoor slams into the brick of the wall, the thud and crack of splintering material echoes through the alley. It should be a funny picture, giant Tom being shoved behind tiny John. It should be funny._

_But her bluebird had flinched, hard, even as far under as he was, at her uncles' entrance and all Emma can do is curl tighter over him._

“EMMA!”

“EM!”

_She knows how it must look to them, her eyes (puffy, bloodshot, and positively flooded with tears) beg her uncles to do **something** to help the man she is crouched protectively over. Emma doesn't care. All that matters is helping the man who helped her all those years ago. _

_She runs a cold hand over his fevered skin, listens to the near silent moans that shiver from him alongside the tremors racking his body. Barely acknowledges Tom's and John's approach._

“Holy shit...Is that..?”

“I...Maybe? But how?”

_Emma doesn't understand their confusion, can't fathom how they seem to know him, only understands that they are standing still and **not helping**._

“Please...help him.” _a broken whisper is all Emma can force past the lump in her throat. The look Tom and John exchange is lost on her, but ultimately Tom moves, scooping up Emma's bluebird like he weighs no more than a bouquet of wild flowers. John helps Emma to her feet, the kitten racing after Tom's feet and into the warm and blissfully dry kitchen._

“Don't worry about him, Em. Tom and me know a thing or two about field medicine and we've got favors we can pull with a guarantee of discretion. He'll be patched up real soon.” _John is trying to be optimistic and Emma is grateful for that, but still..._

_She spots his lies and knows his worries. There was something more going on than just her uncles promising to take care of her bluebird._

_Now it is a simple matter of getting them to tell her._

 

_~MOH~_

 

_His body is on fire, the muscles draining and filling with liquid heat each time he moves. The body screams for rest, but he forces it on, one step at a time for days after the last mission. His spine is bent and contorted out of alignment due to the dead weight that his arm has become. The mission targets had shot...something that had released an arcing wave of familiar electrified pain which resulted in the arm shutting down. Before that point, he had managed to evade most return fire, after that, the dead weight had thrown off his balance enough that several bullets had found homes in his body. Those were the worst to remove and he can feel a few he hadn't managed to get out pushing deeper into his body with every movement forward. Despite the pain, getting shot wasn't enough to stop him from completing the mission, but by the time it was over, all the Handlers and fellow operatives were dead and the pain had been anything but annoying._

_Now he struggles to just keep **moving**. _

“This is a stupid move, Jerk. Ya need ta get those wounds looked at 'fore they become even more infected.”

**Not real. It's not there. No one is there. No one... No summer sky eyes that see more than they should.**

“That's a fine and dandy way to treat those only trying to look out for ya, Soldier. It's a'ight, go ahead and pretend we don't exist. Not like we have feelings to hurt or nothin'.”

_He flinches, not hard like a civilian would, but in his compromised state it is enough to send him careening into the closest wall. The voices have been following him for the last three days, beginning after day five post-mission. Ghosts from Before he can only assume. Hearing their voices always causes an ache in his chest, a wrenching pain he can't describe and can't fix. The Technicians could make it go away with the Chair, strap him in and burn him with icy electricity, burn away the voices and choices and feelings of self that have been growing._

“Leave off the ole chap, boys. Soldier has been through enough without your commentary.”

“Vous êtes presque en sécurité maintenant, Ombreux. Juste un peu plus loin.”

_They keep calling him Soldier, like his Handlers did sometimes during this last mission. He wonders if that is who he is supposed to be, if that word is what defines him._

“Monty's right. Gotta give the soldier space now, Ace. It's been a long week for him.”

“Frenchie's correct, Soldier. Only a few feet more then you can rest.

**No..Can't...nothing is safe...will find...forced....can't go back..!**

“I promise ya, Jerk, where we're takin' ya, you'll be safe. You'll be able to rest and recuperate.”

 _Summer Sky hasn't lied (can't lie, not to him, he has been trained too well_ **You know him too well** _) yet, has been a kind Handler_ _(HYDRA kills the weak, kills any kindness because love and its elk is for children_ **Kindness gets ya killed. Don't matter, he - we - are already dead.** _) with_ _the directions he gives. He shouldn't trust Summer Sky or Frenchie or Brit or Bear or Calm. Trusting is punishable. Trusting is death. A weapon does not trust or question but fires where the hand guides. He shouldn't follow these voices, obeying the voices goes against his programming as the Fist of HYDRA._

_He shouldn't._

_But he does. Over and over and over, one foot in front of the other, he follows because that is all he knows._

_He stumbles those few feet more, the thick tread of his combat boots sliding on the rain slick road. Whether it is the poor lighting provided by street lamps or his vision finally failing on him, the shadows are deeper than a few minutes before, reaching and grasping at him, pulling him down into their inky depths. Something cold and biting grabs his heart, seizing his lungs, and freezing his limbs._

**Fear. This is called fear. We feel it when strapped to the Chair. In that moment before the Freeze. We see it in the eyes of our Targets before Death. We are Fear.**

_His feet catch against each other and he pitches sideways, his left shoulder clipping the corner of an alleyway opening. Balance shot, the world twisting around him, he staggers into the nearest alcove. With all of his strength spent, it is an uncontrolled slide to the wet ground with the rough cement blocks of the building ripping hair and flesh from his scalp. He doesn't even feel the pain, just registers the dull throb and the sticky wetness._

_He's so tired._

_He hasn't slept since before the mission. He's been a good Asset though, completed the mission, eliminated the Targets, kept moving. Now he can sleep right? He can...he must...he can't move..._

“NO! DON'T SLEEP! DON'T YOU DARE SLEEP!”

 **Let me sleep! PLEASE LET ME SLEEP! Please...pleasepleasepleaseplease!** _He would weep if he remembered how, if the training would allow for him to cry._

“Don't sleep, Soldier.”

“Stay awake!”

“Reste avec nous, Ombreux!”

_Their pleas are useless; he feels the darkness rising inside. The shadows reach at the edges of his vision, scrambling over his body and he wants to get away, tries to push himself away from the shadows he sees but his energy is spent. He remains where he collapsed, unable to respond to the rapidly fading voices as the black ink overtakes everything._

**Sorry...**

 

~MOH~

 

_How much time has passed is a mystery, the passage of it marked only by how much darker the world is under the storm clouds indicating the fall of the sun. Obviously though it's been several hours and that fact frightens him because he knows how easy it is for anything to happen in the eternity that exists in hours. He's been the monster in the night, creeping in the shadowed minutes and extinguishing the light of eternity in the blink of a second._

_Shifting reveals that he is soaked through, the firm leather material of his Kevlar body armor sticking to fever hot skin. The feeling of leather peeling from skin is wildly uncomfortable but he doesn't allow that to appear in his body language; his training allows no such luxuries. In the end, all he has the energy for is to cover most of his left arm with his body, shielding the rain wet metal from any possible light that might reflect off the plates and give away his position. The voices are gone. His eyes dip down and he tries to find some positive emotion for the silence. He can't. The silence sets him on edge, makes his weakened body work overtime trying to catch any warning of danger._

_It was natural instinct to grab a knife and put it towards the sound that had been entirely too **close**. He stares at overly large luminescent eyes that somehow gave off a feeling of satisfaction (his Handlers have always looked like that when they see him in the Chair. It makes his stomach roll uncomfortably.) and a disturbing grin pulling furred lips away from sharp teeth. He couldn't recall ever seeing a creature such as the small ball of fur sitting primly at his knees, but something deep in his gut spoke that the grin pulling ever wider at its cheeks was **not** natural. The knife inched closer to this unknown entity but it ignored the weapon, merely meowed again and rubbed it's still grinning face against the wet material of his combat pants. It's purrs rumbled surprisingly deep from such a tiny creature and despite every instinct he possessed screaming not to lower his guard, he slowly put away the blade as the vibrating sounds loosened the tension in his body. It was...nice, the purring rumble and the feeling of the tiny body pressing against his knees. He wasn't alone even if the critter disturbed him on multiple levels. While he shouldn't relax in a place that was so exposed, the critter at his knees and his bodies own demands for rest pulled at his resolve until he eventually relaxed into a limp lump propped against the alcove wall next to him. The shadows were creeping up on him again, darkening and grasping at his edges._

“Mreow?” _He's not sure how it managed (or anything he's seen so far) but the creature's call sounded both questioning and concerned. It felt like corpses weighed down his eyelids and though he oddly wanted to reassure the creature of his functionality, there was hardly any strength left to twitch a finger let alone speak. So he says nothing, but twitches the index finger of his biological hand towards the miniscule black nose. Something moist and scratchy ran over his fingertips followed by the softest fur. Blue ice rapidly glazing over watched the strange creature lick and rub against fingertips almost as big as its eyes._

“Meow?!” _A sharp sudden pain radiating from his finger snaps him from the swirling vortex of color and weightlessness he had been falling into. His body jerks slightly from the suddenness of the attack, but it is enough. His nerves light with fire, radiating star bursts from each bullet wound unhealed and infected. His vision swims again, nauseating whorls and flares of bright color obscuring until he can no longer distinguish up from down._

“MEOW!” _Had he been able to see past his twisting vision, he would have seen the uncomfortably large grin disappear from the creature's face, replaced with a look of impossible fear. As it was, all he could do is sit there and focus on breathing, on dragging oxygen through the icy burn of fluid sloshing in his lungs.._

_Just breathe._

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

_ Breathe, Soldier. Breathe through the pain, through the nausea, through the screams in your head. Don't let the Handlers see your weakness. Don't let the world deceive you with promises of safety. Breathe because you know that you are the monster in the night; monsters never falter, never hesitate, never miss. Breathe. _

_In._

_Out._

_In._

“Mreow!”

_Out._

_Warm and slightly damp fur against his fingertips. A plaintive call with a dash of triumph. Heavier footsteps splashing in puddles ( Not an assassin. Civilian.) and he relaxes just a touch at the deduction (but not enough to be foolish. Letting down one's guard is a sure-fire way to be killed), gently caressing the fuzzy head bumping against his fingertips._

“Khoroshiy kotenok ...”

 _His attention zeroed dangerously on the soft fur against his skin, so much so that he forgot for a moment the civilian the creature-no, kitten, that's what it was; how could he have forgotten?- had led to his spot._ **That sort of inattention gets one killed, Idiot!**

“Hi. My name's Emma Swan. Do you need help?”

_A female slowly crouches before him, a smart but foolish move because it matters not where she stands or how, he can still kill her easily despite his current condition. Pushing aside as much of the pain and dizzying sensations as he can, he focuses on her face, looking for any tells that would indicate an attack. There are none. In fact, she seems more wary of him than he had first assumed. Not that he can make much out through the blur that his normally enhanced sight has become. Mostly colors are all he can see now and in the dim light of the alley, that doesn't help at all._

_Blonde, Caucasian, blocks of varying shades of red on her shirt, dark blue jeans, some dark color for her shoes (boots with a low heel by the sound of it)._

_And green eyes. A familiar shade of green that wasn't pure but he knew instead contained star bursts of blue, pinwheels of hazel gold. How he knew he wasn't sure, there was something though, rattling in the corners of his mind that told him these eyes are good, these eyes are kind, these eyes as imperfect as they are will keep him safe._

_Safe...what is safety? He doesn't recall what that is supposed to feel like. Is it that pleased feeling when he holds his preferred rifle in his hands? The moment when the ice freezes over him and all the pain disappears into the cold and the stillness and the blackness of the Tube? Is that feeling “safety”? His chest is warm, a different warmth from the infernal heat of the fever, and the muscles along his neck loosen just a touch._

_He's not entirely sure what happens after that point. There are flashes, warmth at certain points on his body from a small body under his, his hand engulfing an impossibly tiny wrist, lights and rain and harsh pavement against his back. Something impossibly soft, silken, and surrounding him in a cloud of spice, sun, and an indescribable wildness. There are voices. Two deep, one airy but not light because there is too much darkness in it to be light. He knows those voices...._

_The shadows finally win._

 

_~MOH~_

 

 _It had been a full day since the kitten (whom Emma had named Cheshire after seeing the legendary cat on the cover of her copy) had brought the man to Emma and her Uncles and the man had gone through emergency surgery. John had provided a light broth, something easy to feed the still unconscious patient without chunks that needed to be chewed. Emma admitted that maybe she should have been more cautious (_ “Alright! Fine, Tom, I should have been extremely cautious. No “maybe” whatsoever. Can we move on now?” _) and maybe she should have had John or Tom with her, but honestly, Emma just hadn't thought beyond the fact that none of them knew when he had last eaten was, the Uncles were busy with the diner's lunch traffic, and the biggest fact: Emma is a strong independent woman who can take care of herself._

_Well, she could until possibly suffering PTSD victims who obviously know their way around gyms and have a frankly awesome metal arm decide to wake up and take umbrage at the fact that she is trying to get him into a better position for feeding. She speaks from experience that broth is a salty mess when dry, like ocean water that's dried on your skin before being washed off with fresh water. Not pleasant. Emma also hadn't been thinking in terms of possibly supernatural patient, but rather in terms of her own completely normal human body's reaction._

_So when he suddenly woke up and proceeded to fling her quite hard into the wall as far from him as possible, Emma isn't really all that surprised. Well, she's a little surprised and very much bruised, but hind-sight and all that clears a lot of the anger at being thrown like a rag doll._

_The thundering footsteps of her Uncles up the stairs sends him flying into a corner, crouched defensively and with the metal arm between the door and his vitals. Emma winces, almost positive she can hear the stitches tearing with each movement. Although, only Tom's footsteps thundered; John always sounded more like a heavy rainstorm on a wood roof mostly because John ran on the balls of his feet whereas Tom ran like he was trying to stomp an imprint of his passage in the world. She could see how those sounds together would be frightening to a clearly traumatized man. Her Uncles were also going to be no help once they figured out what he had done to Emma in self-defense. Time to force the pain away and work on damage control._

_Emma had just managed to get back to her feet in time for Tom and John to burst through the door. Despite every instinct screaming that moving quickly is a **bad** idea, she rushes to be between her furious, overprotective uncles and the painfully tense, not-truly-a-stranger feral guest. Seriously, with the way his lips are pulled against pearly teeth (no, she's not jealous of his perfect teeth or his perfectly toned Greek Adonis body, or his gorgeous fresh-out-of-bed wavy hair. Really, she's not.) Emma is surprised he's not verbally snarling. Then again, Tom is doing enough for both of them so she guessed it balanced. _

“Out. Everything is fine, we are all fine. Just a slight miscalculation, nothing to worry about.” _Even, calm tones to illicit a lowering of tension. Yep, smooth and easy..._

“ **Like.** _ **Hell.**_ **”**

_Who is she kidding? She's trying to calm down an irrational, protective Tom. That is never easy or smooth.._

“ “Like Hell” nothing. My mistake, my consequence. I **DO NOT** want World War Three in my bedroom. Also, can the growl. Last I checked, you weren't a damn animal so quit acting like one. At least he has a probable excuse. You, however, do not.” _Okay, maybe she had gone a bit overboard, but Emma has always had a touch of a temper and right now she does not have the patience to deal with Tom's overprotective instincts. There is an ice gaze causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end. Emma feels very much like a prey caught in the gaze of a predator, one she isn't sure is deciding to simply kill her quickly or to play and prolong her suffering. Rock and a hard place. She's not entirely sure who is which._

“But-!”

“ **OUT.** ”

“C'mon, Ace. Get downstairs before Douglas and Walters try to start another Irish Pub fight. We can't afford to pay for damage repairs after the last time. Emmie, ya need us, I'm right down the stairs in the kitchen. Text me if it ain't serious, but worrying; scream if it's life threatening, yeah?”

_ Thank you, John! _

“I will. Now get, both of you. Pretty sure I can hear tendons snapping behind me.” _Emma watched, wary but slightly more amused now than annoyed, as the pipsqueak that was John wrestled the still clearly protesting mountain called Tom back downstairs._

“But! We can't just! FREZ!”

“Don't make me call Jones or Beth-Anne.” _Tom paled at the threat. Jones being his best friend and Beth-Anne his granddaughter (with_ **connections** _so therefore understood the situation) had enough blackmail to make any threat a serious one._

_Emma chuckled quietly to herself at the fading antics of two old friends. They also weren't off the hook for the odd reaction to her...guest, but as there has been more pressing matters, she'll confront them later. With a deep breath for fortification, Emma turned around and made eye contact with the eyes that had been burning their imprint into her skull._

_It was him. The dead blue eyes she had seen so often in her dreams, broken and cold at the surface, burning embers just begging for oxygen to flare into brilliant life deep under that crystal ice. She sounded like one of those preppy romantics she absolutely despised, but Heaven help her, that is exactly what she sees. Though, seeing them now, Emma remembers them being a bit more gray than light blue. More winter thunder storm than early spring day after a rainstorm. Somehow that bit of color change is important. One seems slightly more dangerous than the other._

_In either case, the soup is going cold (thank goodness she had the foresight to place the tray on the dresser rather than the nightstand as she had originally planned) and she needs to get him calm enough to check the stitches._

“I'm not sure how much you remember from last night, you were pretty out of it on account of the fever and possibly the pain. My name is Emma. Emma Swan. I'm not going to hurt you and I am truly sorry if that is what you believed. I wasn't exactly expecting you to wake up so soon.” _Senseless chatter, open body language, just letting him know she isn't a threat and that he can relax. All the websites for handling panic attacks from PTSD victims claimed calm and presence were some of the ways to bringing a victim down. Let them know that they are not alone and that they are not in the traumatic situation. Emma is no Sherlock Holmes, understands she can only speculate until he confirms or denies, but having gone through trauma herself, she knows the signs and symptoms. So she talks and waits and watches. Catalogs each flinch, every tick and steers wherever he leads. She tells him the date, tells him where he is, speaks of Tom and John and her job as a waitress, sits cross-legged by the door but not blocking his exit when her legs become too tired to stand. Emma doesn't tell him of Charlie or the patrons below their feet, doesn't tell him of Neal and the baby she gave up, cannot tell him of Jolene or that night in December when he became her Guardian Angel and the Avenger of her Sister-Home. Those are too deep to speak of when he is half-feral with pain and fever and panic._

_Eventually after several hours, Emma's voice is just a shade away from giving out completely and he has eaten the soup (but only after watching her eat a spoonful and her own food that John graciously brought up). When her legs began to cramp, she stretched them out, not commenting on the way his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Now he sits with his back still against the corner, his knees drawn to his chest with his flesh arm. The metal arm hangs from his shoulder like dead weight. It's vulnerable and not something she would have expected from the man she remembers. Yet from the very start, there have been many things about this version of her angel that are different from the one of her childhood. Health for one; He hadn't been wounded to within an inch of his life last time. Mental is another; she remembers him being quite a bit more talkative. Emma can't really see anything different emotionally speaking. Statues are jealous of his poker face, she's fairly certain._

“You're safe here, for as long as you need.” _Silence descends on the small bedroom. Despite everything to the contrary, Emma didn't feel uncomfortable in this silence. There was something comforting about listening to the soft breathing of another person alongside your own. Though anyone else would say that finding comfort in the breathing patterns of a soldier and quiet possible killer worrisome, Emma has always been a good judge of character. Her stranger is dangerous, yes, but she also got the feeling that he was very lost._

_And she knows all about being lost._

“Soldat.”

_Emma jerked, spooked from the light doze she had fallen into at the sound of the rasped rumble._

“W-what?” _She blinked,trying to bring her mind back from the half brink state of sleep. His blue ice eyes have a distinct look in them. Emma bristles._ “Okay, now see here, Buddy! I have spent the last six hours talking myself hoarse,I kept Tom from ripping you apart for hurting me, I gave up a nice warm bed so that you can recover comfortably, so I do not appreciate that eyebrow of yours calling me an idiot. I'm exhausted! Cut me some slack for not waking up and instantly understanding the situation.”

_He didn't smile but there was something that spoke of faint amusement at her tirade._

“Soldat.”

_It took everything Emma had to not growl in frustration. Somehow, she thinks he still sees through her efforts._

“Soldat? What, is that your name?” _The tangled mess of curls bounces with the tiny nod. It's not really a name but she doesn't say anything about that. If he wishes to be addressed as Soldat, she will respect his choice. If there comes a point when he wants a new name, Emma will be there to help him choose._ “Okay. Soldat is certainly better than the Man, or the Stranger as I've been using in my head. I'm also partial to Siniy Soyka.” _Emma spots the barest twitch of his head, his confusion so evident after watching him for six hours straight._ “Your eyes.” _She points to the mentioned body organ._ “They are a striking shade of blue.”

_Heat rushes across her cheeks. Yeah, she **really** had not meant to say that out loud. Thank goodness he doesn't seem to comprehend her little slip.  Now is the perfect time to retreat. _

“Well, I'm just going to go and see if the Uncles need any, uh, help with the dinner rush so, um, yeah....bathroom is down the hall to the right. Stairs to downstairs and the kitchens are to the left.” _Emma is not a coward, she's just strategically retreating to gather better intelligence! Yeah, totally believable. If the one she's trying to convince is a two year old whose sole vocabulary revolves around the words “no” and “gimme”._

_She ignores the ice on the back of her neck and the urge to turn around, to lock eyes with impossibility one last time._

 

_~MOH~_

 

_The woman is...odd. Soldat can't figure out what her purpose is in,well, anything. Just as she had been observing him,he had spent the last six hours trying to place where she fell in the hierarchy of HYDRA._

_She didn't. His Handlers would have killed her without question._

_He watches as she scurries from the room, the barest hint of a smirk dancing on the corners of chapped lips. It is rare for this warm bubble of feeling to blossom within his gut, rare because it is not often his Targets prove themselves entertaining. There are no specific memories for this fact of himself only that there is certainty in the thought and so it must be truth. The woman, Emma, is unique and strange enough. Maybe he will find some way to coax her into sharing the warmth she exudes and finally chase away the marrow deep chill inside._

_Getting to his feet is an unwanted struggle to similar to emerging from the Tube for his comfort. The only difference is that HYDRA grunts are not there to force him to his feet, to drag his frigid corpse to the Chair and its swarm of technicians._

_Flashes of gold and sun drenched green grass sway in the empty doorway. A cold stone settled deep with the echoed sound of flesh against solid wood; a feeling he does not like and has no understanding of._

_Weakness is a killer fault. HYDRA kills all signs of weakness, destroys all who do not become strong. And he is discovering too many weakness for his peace._

_As he staggers the six steps back to the bed, a silent snarl breaks the blank mask he forces himself to wear. It was taking entirely too long to heal and the longer he stayed in one place, the higher the chance of discovery. By HYDRA, by HYDRA's enemies, he didn't know but as comforting darkness swallowed him deep, he found he didn't really want to find out._

 


	3. They Are Brothers Under the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beautiful friendship blossoms.

**CHAPTER TWO: THEY ARE BROTHERS UNDER THE SUN**

 

We are like birds of a feather **   
** We are two hearts joined together **   
** We will be forever as one **   
** My brother under the sun

 

**BROTHERS UNDER THE SUN by Bryan Adams**

 

**~MOH~**

 

**Brooklyn, New York 1920s-1930s**

 

James Buchanan Barnes would never remember his life as Jefferson, though images of a blonde woman in red leather or a young pre-teen caramel haired girl holding a patched raggedy, white rabbit would haunt his dreams. Memories of Jefferson and Mad Hatter are buried so far in his psyche only the strongest traits find themselves intertwined in the make-up of James Barnes. Jefferson's boyish charm, Hatter's intense observation, the Portal Jumper Thief's survival skills, the Father's protective and caring instincts. All these roll into Jimmy and he is balanced - _at last!_ \- but still, there is something missing and he knows and he suffers some days from anxious energy, telling- _screaming_ that he has to get back to something- _someone!_ Those days, the Barnes Family Matriarch worries because Jimmy would disappear for hours only to stumble home sobbing with his feet blistered and bloody. Those days are torture to the kind-hearted mother yet those days she can comfort her little boy when he cries, can bandage the wounds on his flesh. The days when Jimmy walks through the front door catatonic, blue eyes dead yet containing sparks of.... _madness_ ...that is when Winifred Barnes feels absolutely helpless. These are the days were the wounds are mental and emotional and gaping crimson raw in her little boy. Her baby Jimmy with sad old eyes and crooked smile, laughter light and broken for a reason he can't remember but his soul trembles under. She can't fix him these days, can't bandage these wounds and kiss them better, so she holds him close and lets him listen to her heart. Only he struggles when she does at first, cackling in mad giggles and flopping like a beached fish in her arms. Eventually he calms and his screamed cries of “ _GET IT TO WORK!_ ” and “ _OFF WITH HIS HEAD!”_ become “ _it worked but not right! To far, to far, no end in sight._ ” On these days right before he drifts into exhausted slumber, Jimmy will look into Winifred's teary gaze with his own shattered azure dull but mending once again.

“ _Hearts beat so loud in the boxes, the boxes of the monstrous Queen's collection. I don't like heartbeats anymore. Sounds like imprisonment and stone walls thump thump thumping in time with marching guards.”_ whispers against her clammy skin as Jimmy sleeps.

Winifred  _knows_ her son isn't mad or insane and absolutely refuses to label him as such, merely that the things his soul knows but his mind has forgotten spill out sometimes in a rush of jumbled knowledge that makes no sense to anyone else because  _they_ haven't seen or lived the way her Jimmy did. So she holds him close as his pain shatters against her, as his sorrow for something unknown rages against the cruelty of the world.

Jimmy turns nine and the Rogers family move in a floor below the Barnes, bringing Winifred hope for her baby. Steven Grant Rogers is an eight year old sickly frail child but with a heart bigger than his body and a stubborn will larger than America. The first time Jimmy saves Steven, it has been three weeks since the Rogers moved into the complex. A group of ten year-old boys are shoving around three six year-old children, Jimmy's sister Rebekah standing valiantly in front of her two friends, when Steven weakly decks the first boy and slides in front of the little group.

“ _How bout picking on someone who's willin' and able to fight back?”_ Steven is cocky and sure, soul standing taller and stronger than the body he's been given. The first fist splits his lip and lands him on the ground. First kick spreads a malicious bruise across his abdomen and tosses Steven into the children he protects. Up he gets, body trembling and fists raised to defend, to slow against the hay-maker from the left that swells his eye and causes his head to crack against the packed dirt of the schoolyard. There is ringing in his ears and a heavy thumping from his heart but as Steven pops up from the ground like a hyperventilating jack-in-the-box there is another boy beside him, fist flying in a devastating uppercut to the jaw of the ringleader. Brunette locks curl wildly around ice blue eyes while a fearsome growl rips surprisingly deep as the boy kicks the ten year old to the left of the leader, following the older boy's stagger with a harsh elbow to the stomach. For a scrawny child, Steven is and isn't surprised at how strong the brunette is, because times are harsh and fighting is a sad fact of life. Steven tackles the other ten year old on the right and manages one lucky punch to the nose as they fall. The six year old group Steven and the boy protect gang up on the last boy, tiny hearts embolden by their rescuers.

Teachers come and separate the fighters, the brunette hissing and spitting at the ten year old  _to stay the hell away from his sister_ . That is when Steven learns the boy's name is James and they live in the same apartment complex, the little girl Steven stood in front of is James' sister, and this is also not James' first fight. The three groups of children are questioned and cleaned, parents are called and updated, and as Steven's cuts are swabbed with stinging alcohol his eyes meet James across from him. James smiles and Steven smiles in return; fresh blood from matching split lips lending a manic feral tinge to otherwise mischievous grins. They are kindred protectors and guardians and while one guardian is good, two is infinitely better.

The arrival of the mothers is interesting to compare. Sarah Rogers flutters in like a frenzied dervish, yet oddly more reminiscent of a hummingbird to James' eyes than a windstorm. She coos and clucks and fusses over Steven, Irish lilt harsh in her worry as she questions Steven's parentage because surely his reckless behavior did not come from her. Steven rolls his eyes to James even as he placates his mother and James doesn't even attempt to stifle his laugh for his own mother had been the same way....until the seventh time in a week she had been called in for his fighting. Now she strolls through the door with an odd combination of fondness, irritation, and exasperation on her face that has made James always wonder at the ability to contort a face in such a manner. Winifred doesn't fuss like Sarah over her son because Jimmy can take care of himself and his fights are always because he is protecting someone else. Her Jimmy is a good boy and that's her story she will stick beside. This does not mean that her hand won't unerringly find the back of James' skull in reprimand nor that his father will not be having words when he returns home. Rebekah on the other hand, gets the full worried mother treatment because she should know better than to fight and look at the state of her dress!  _“Money doesn't grow on trees, young lady!”_

James knows that he will be making a new dress for his little Becky out of one of his own old shirts because while she had done a number on her bully's face - _and he is so flippin' proud of his little sister and her right hook, which he helped train into the pistol fire it is so of course he has every right to be flying high on his pride_ \- the scuffle had done a number on her dress which hangs in irreparable tatters over the chair his mother now sits in. His own dusty shirt is only slightly torn, easily stitched closed, so Becky wears that for modesty because being the big brother means providing and caring for the younger ones. Time breeds necessity and James found that he has some considerable skill with needle and thread, enough that the Barnes family does not worry overly much about clothing expenses during this time of great depression. He is already imagining how to incorporate the remains of her dress into the new one so it will be fashionably acceptable while removing the threadbare patches left over from him. Then James catches gaze again with the little blonde boy with eyes as blue as the summer sky and understanding flows. They are united now; bonded in the blood of their enemies for the protection of the innocent. James looks and catalogues the patch spots, makes mental calculations, and decides that there will be enough material left over in his scrap box for a new shirt the boy can have. The mother looks stressed enough as is and the boy is so skinny that honestly, James believes he would fit in one of Becky's dresses. They are bonded now, James has decided, and that means the boy is family, an honorary Barnes, James' little brother.

The mothers walk the children home a half past hour after their arrival with paperwork filled out and promises of punishment given, acquainting themselves with the other over shared stories of the pain in raising rambunctious boys. Becky skips between her two heroes, swinging connected hands back and forth as she grins in giggling excitement. James introduces himself as James Buchanan Barnes, but he doesn't really like his first name and his middle name is so stuffy like the President he's named after. Steven introduces himself as Steven Grant Rogers, don't call him Grant or there will be consequences. So James calls him Steve which Steven likes and keeps, and Bucky is hurled with all the seriousness of life because that is what Steve called him in his head watching him going wild on the bullies. James blushes crimson red in embarrassed indignation at the thought of being compared to a wild animal and not even a cool one like a wolf but rather a deer. However, he does like how 'Bucky' rolls off the tongue when said together with 'Barnes'. He strings the two together multiple times- Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes, BUCKYBARNES!- just to be sure. Yes, he quite likes it a lot more than James and Jimmy is reserved only for his mother and sister.

Then Becky pipes up and adds a completely new name to the list and Jame- no-  _Bucky_ fears if he's not careful, he will have so many names, copy-right infringements will begin cropping up.

“Jimmy, I'm a gonna calls you Bucky Bear, that way...everyone knows the diff..uh.. def...um..the not same things between us cause Bucky sounds like Becky and _I'M_ Becky but you're really a Bucky so people might get confused. I don't wants people confused.”

Steve laughs as Bucky tries to convince his strong-willed little sister to _please not_ call him Bucky Bear in public, he has a reputation to uphold- _gosh darnit, Steve, you are NOT helping!_ _QUIT LAUGHING!_ The ensuing shoving match quickly dissolves into a rolling scuffle in the dirt with Becky coming out as the victor courtesy of her boney elbows body slammed into the boys' stomachs. The world continues on around them, but a child cares not for the world's worries when laughter and friendship are budding anew.

Sarah and Winifred look on the children, full of hope for the future, whatever may come.

Growing up together means that Steve is privy to practically every one of Bucky's dark secrets, his tells and tricks, the events which have shaped him into the personable man Bucky becomes. The reverse is also true. Yet there are times when even Steve has no idea what occurred to create a particular characteristic in his friend. Just like Mrs. Barnes, Bucky's wandering episodes horrify Steve because he can't  _do anything_ to help the boy who has helped him in so many ways. Mrs. Barnes is quick to reassure Steve that since meeting him, her Jimmy has had fewer episodes, a handful of bad days mixed with a sprinkling of worse days. She thanks God every single day for bringing Steve and his family to her family, to her Jimmy. 

 

_~MOH~_

 

“ _Be there for him, Steven. When he seeks you out, don't back away in fear; embrace him in love. He doesn't know where he is in these moments, but Jimmy's soul...it is searching. For home. For peace. For love, I don't know and neither does he. Maybe he'll never know, but you bring him a measure of peace that I haven't been able to give him. Thank you, Steven.”_

 

_~MOH~_

 

Three months after Steve and Bucky meet that first time, Bucky wanders into the Rogers apartment. His feet are bare and bloody, glacier eyes rid-rimmed and puffy, clothes and skin covered in dust mix with tears into mud down his cheeks. Steve is forever grateful that his ma isn't home to see that state Bucky is in. As it is, Steve has a hard time approaching this creature baring his best friend's face, even as it - _ he-  _ sways dangerously in place. But....

Fresh tears are puddling in those familiar wide blue eyes and Steve is frozen because  _ Bucky. Never. Cries! _ Maybe Steve really is the bleeding heart his ma always claims he was born as; never matter, Steve opens his arms to Bucky –  _ his Bucky –  _ and waits for the wounded soul before him.

It's not a long wait and Steve is struggling in his stupidly frail body to hold up the shuddering body of the older boy as Bucky clings like a limpet. Quivering though they are, Bucky's arms are like steel bands wrapped around Steve's chest. Steve had come to realize that Bucky was strong: strong-willed, strong of character, and physically stronger than most boys their age. He had seen Bucky lay out bullies twice their size and age with a few well placed punches; could feel the strength under Bucky's skin in his handshakes and bat swings and now in this desperate hug. But Steve also knew that despite feeling like Bucky was trying his hardest to impersonate a boa constrictor around Steve's chest, Bucky was still subconsciously holding back his full strength which Steve took to mean that Bucky was able to recognize him in this state.

Steve is grateful, truly, but....

Breathing is important!

Maybe it's Steve's wheezing gasps or Bucky is finally coming back from wherever it is he went, but the constrictor arms loosen and Steve can finally  _ breathe _ . Steve is not released, but now he can lead them back to his bedroom instead of remaining in the living room like decorative statues. Bucky goes quietly, forcing them both into an awkward crab shuffle when he continually refuses to let go. Steve takes his own comfort in the familiarity of his lumpy mattress, in the rusty creak of old springs as he scoots himself and Bucky up to the pillow. Once everything has settled, Bucky is nuzzling his head into the crook of Steve's neck –  _ hiding, Steve thinks _ – and a brief shot of disgust runs through him at the feel of slimy snot on his skin. But the shivers have stopped and Bucky no longer feels clammy to the touch. Brunette curls tickle where they scratch against Steve, but this too is familiar. Steve learned very early in their friendship that Bucky is an extremely tactile kid, always touching, always reaching for skin to skin contact. Bucky isn't abused nor does his family withhold any affection from him. Mrs. Barnes explained to Mrs. Rogers once –  _ it wasn't bad eavesdropping if it was about Steve's friend, right? _ – that though Bucky wasn't biologically her son, she and her husband loved him as good as if he had been born of her womb; that Bucky couldn't remember before Mrs. Barnes and Mr. Barnes but it must have been truly awful based on how Bucky interacted with the world. Mrs. Barnes called it being touch-starved. Others outside of the know called it being unhealthy neediness and why didn't the Barnes show that boy what-for and have James grow up. Personally, Steve thought that most adults aside from his and Bucky's ma and pa are stupid.

Knowing what he does, Steve willingly allows Bucky to touch and reassure himself that Steve is there. It's not queer. It's what Bucky needs and Steve has enough heart and love to spare.

After that first bad day, Steve talks to Mrs. Barnes about what Bucky needs and how to handle Bucky's situation – _because it is not a condition, he and Mrs. Barnes agree on that!_ – and she tells him that he did exactly what he should have. She warns him about the worse days, that anything Bucky says or does Steve should take with a grain of salt. Steve is to call her if Bucky comes to him on a worse day because those days a simple hug wasn't going to be enough. Bucky won't mean what he does and he will feel disgusted with himself for later bruises, but those are the days where he is more prone to violent anger than overwhelming depression. Steve is too fragile to help on those days and Bucky would be beyond devastated if he seriously wounded Steve. In the long run, Steve never is privileged to witness one of Bucky's worse days. Bad days aplenty host themselves in Steve's memories of the boys' formative years, gradually growing less into their teens before becoming almost non-existent as adults. The worse days, however, remain for Winifred Barnes to work through; maybe because Bucky instinctively realizes that his ma can handle his anger that he never goes to the Rogers apartment where he could so easily break Steve in his strength.

It is not all bad, their childhood. There are times where it seems that the world is turning just right for the boys and their families. Days when the depression is a littler further from their homes, when there is enough extra cash to slip the boys a checker* each to spend as they choose. Those are the days Steve likes best. Not the days where Steve is running Bucky and both their mothers ragged by pushing his sick body beyond what it can handle. Not the days where Bucky comes back from wandering sobbing hysterically or ranting fanatically. Not the days when the boys parents sit and discuss options of what to do to best survive the economic depression. Certainly not the days when Steve and Bucky are let go from the little jobs they manage to find in the city; Bucky going from whatever mill/factory/dock will hire the physically fit teen while Steve mostly works with newspapers as an artist since that seems to be the only job that didn't exasperate his frail body's immune system. The days when Bucky makes Steve laugh as he charms the shop keepers for a lower price; days when Steve practices his art on old newspapers and scraps of cardboard and Bucky beams proudly at the finished product; days when Bucky's parents are not so worn down and can be found dancing together while Steve's mother sings songs from her homeland. These are the days Steve and Bucky cherish most, the memories that keep them going during the war that followed the economic depression of their youth.

When Sarah Rogers is taken by tuberculosis in the year of 1936, Bucky offers Steve a permanent place with him (though Steve already has a standing invitation to the Barnes table and home), not willing to leave his best friend alone to the capriciousness of the world.

“ _I'm with ya to the end of the line, Pal.”_

Steve declines, his pride and stubbornness unwilling to bend even to his best friend's pleading ice eyes. Bucky understands and instead finds ways to discretely provide what he can. Groceries appear in the icebox when money is tighter that week; medicine Steve couldn't hope to afford without first going hungry for two weeks finds its way into the medicine cabinet; a new coat on the coat tree when Steve's old coat was more thread than coat. Steve never points out these 'gifts' because he  _can't_ think of them as charity. Also because Bucky will forever deny the metal can in the back of his own closet with STEVIE carved into the scrubbed silver which often finds a portion of Bucky's pay passing into the wide throat until the day the money is needed. Bucky understands the need to prove oneself to world. 

Instead, Bucky finds charcoal sketches of his family squirreled away in his coat pockets, his boots, under his pillow, in his lunch pail. The sketches are never signed but he would recognize Steve's style even if Bucky were blind as a fruit bat. Bucky will forever be grateful for meeting the punk that became his best friend. Steve is and will always be a vital part of Bucky's family and Bucky will protect Steve to the last breath in their bodies.

 

 

 


	4. I Am Free, You Can't Take Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shocking and horrifying revelation for Steve and an unwanted drafting for Bucky. War is a place of change, both good and bad.  
> Also Becky is awesome sauce and sprinkles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case I have forgotten to say this in the previous two chapters:
> 
> I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THESE CHARACTERS! IF YOU RECOGNIZE LINES FROM THE MOVIES/TV SHOWS I DON'T OWN THOSE EITHER. I'M BORROWING THEM TO PLAY WITH IN THIS STORY. ANYTHING RECOGNIZABLE BELONGS TO MARVEL AND DISNEY. I am merely exploring a rare crossover idea. So please, don't sue me.
> 
> Definitely earns the M rating here.
> 
> My second warning is this: If you can't stomach torture or scenes of that nature are a trigger you are gonna want to skip down.
> 
> Third warning: No flame reviews for the direction I took Bucky's character. If you'd like to politely ask what my reasons for going in this direction are, than you may. But I will NOT tolerate cussing me or my story out just because I'm not keeping the character entirely to character. This is fanfiction people, its a place where we can safely screw around with loved characters. So yes, those characters are going to be different in some way. Let's make this journey a fun one, okay?
> 
> Fourth warning: THIS IS THE LONGEST CHAPTER YET! SO ENJOY AND REVIEW! FIRST FIVE REVIEWS GET A HINT/OR SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEXT CHAPTER *HINT HINT*
> 
> FIFTH WARNING:  
> IMPLIED RAPE OF A MINOR! AND LOTS OF MURDER.
> 
> * The song is Ba Mo Leanabh, an Irish lullaby. A really depressing one, but surprisingly pretty. Here's the link I listened to as I wrote. This is kind of how I picture Steve's mom sounding as she sang.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7dW1FtfS9Q&list=PLW5RBo7TQY62YPJ2rOq-HYzxCz2t-LKew&index=23 
> 
> ON WITH THE SHOW!

 

**CHAPTER THREE: I AM FREE, YOU CAN'T TAKE ME**

 

Got to fight another fight - I gotta run another night

Get it out - check it out

I'm on my way and I don't feel right

I gotta get me back - I can't be beat and that's a fact

It's OK - I'll find a way

You ain't gonna take me down no way

Don't judge a thing until you know what's inside it

Don't push me - I'll fight it

Never gonna give in - never gonna give it up no

If you can't catch a wave then your'e never gonna ride

You can't come uninvited

Never gonna give in - never gonna give up no

You can't take me I'm free

 

**YOU CAN'T TAKE ME – BRYAN ADAMS**

 

Bucky cares with intensity, loves with burning all-consuming passion, and is creatively vindictive when it comes to harm befalling those he calls family. He has no qualms with violence in the defense of his family. He actually takes great pleasure in causing pain to those who bring pain to his own. Bucky will leave most of the Brooklyn Underground denizens alone as long as they leave his own untouched. Therefore the smart idiots of Brooklyn learn quickly to identify those Bucky claims under his protection. Usually a few “manners and etiquette lessons” with Bucky discourages further attempts after the first offense which Steve is secretly (ever so slightly) appreciative of the decrease in back ally fights that result from said lessons.

 

~MOH~

 _Steve may be a closet masochist but even he has his limits! Shut yer gob, Buck! I do not pick these fights for some completely_ _**false** _ _idea that I get a sense of pleasure in pain...._

_No, I am NOT blushing...._

_I will tell Mama Barnes about your special 'ma-ga-zines' that are 'not' under your floorboards if you do not. Shut. up...._

_That's what I thought._

~MOH~

 

Not all of Brooklyn's idiots are smart though and often times the imprint of Bucky's fist as a dark bruise on their face or the near perfect replica of his boot on their backsides as he sends them on their way simply isn't enough to get the message across. That is when blood starts flowing in crimson trickles out of the black back alleys of Brooklyn.

 

~MOH~

Steve has no idea what is going on in the underbelly of Brooklyn at first. Regrettably, it takes him a few weeks after he turns eighteen to notice that some of his more frequent bullies have suddenly begun to avoid him as if he carries the Black Plague in his pocket. A few more days pass after that realization before he makes another connection: each and every one sported garish hospital bandages wrapped around their faces or hands or limped away as quickly as possible when they caught sight of Steve. Some of the bandages were pretty clean and still white; others had blotches of vermilion spreading like ink across the cotton snow.

All told: Steve is getting very, very worried.

However, Steve doesn't have the full puzzle until a few weeks after his mother's death. Walking back from the cemetery, Steve isn't entirely aware of his surroundings. The collision that sends him sprawling to the cracked sidewalk is inevitable, truly. Rubbing the back of his aching head, Steve looked up into the face of his accidental assailant. Terrence Thompson's weasel face stared at him with beady dirt eyes and a satisfied sneer stretching thin lips across pointed teeth.

“Well, well, well. Look a' what the cat dragged 'ere. Itty bitty Rogers. Seems my day just gotta 'ole lot betta.”

Steve raised his fists, his body falling almost naturally into the defensive stance Bucky had been drilling into him since they were fourteen and fifteen respectively.

_This is going to hurt._

 

~MOH~

 

Steve manages to drag himself back to his dreary apartment through years of practice ignoring pain and stubborn will power. Most of his injuries are normal, lacerations and contusions, but Thompson also managed to break his arm. Setting it himself is going to be no walk in the park and he can only pray it'll set right, but he can't afford hospital bills right now when he is still trying to pay off his mother's funeral expenses. Steve makes due as he always has, bandaging what he can reach and trying desperately not to jostle his arm too much. Perhaps its because of the pain (terrible enough at times to the point that all he can hear is a rushing ringing sound that oddly enough reminds him of the color white) or simply the whimpers and groans he can't bite back, but Steve doesn't realize Bucky is there until he hears him.

“ _ **What. The hell. Happened?”**_

Steve froze, gauze wrap suspended halfway around one of the larger lacerations. He could just make out Bucky's blank face in the cracked bathroom mirror. _Oh, sweet Merciful Mary! I forgot Bucky was coming over._ Steve winced at the quickly descending scowl on his best friend's face. _Yep. Mama Bear Buck is here. Ma, if you're watchin' over me right now, I could use a little help._

“ ** _Explain. NOW.”_**

Steve's Tough-Guy-Act (as Bucky frequently called Steve's stubborn attitude) never lasted very long against Bucky's own Stern-Mother- _You-Have-Two-Seconds-Young-Man_ -Mode. He always managed to find some way of wriggling the truth from Steve either through a look or by simple observation and quite accurate assumption. Bucky knew Steve to well. Steve's story of tripping down the stairs leading to his apartment was taken as well as he expected, by which he means not at all.

“Who was it? Steve, tell me who it was or I'm subjecting you to sister-duty and Ma Barnes for the length ah time it takes your arm to heal.”

“Terrence Thompson. It was Terrence Thompson, but Buck, it's fine, okay. Don't get into this, please. This is my battle; let me fight it on my own terms.” Steve isn't sure Bucky heard him which under normal circumstances would irritate Steve something fierce. However, there is a far off look inside those familiar ice eyes that brings to mind the darkest corner of an ally during the witching hour of the night or a forest on the night of no moon. Like a predator awakening, planning, taking in the scent of its prey and enjoying the terror it smells before taking the kill strike. Steve shivers gently. He really does not like that look in his soul brother's eyes.

Bucky says nothing more no matter what Steve does to get him to talk, merely helps Steve finish bandaging the cuts and setting the bone. When Steve tries to walk but almost collapse under the sudden weariness of his adrenalin crashing, Bucky is scooping him up, ignoring Steve's protests that he isn't a damsel in distress. However, this action is also familiar and the gentle rocking motion Bucky's stride provides sends Steve into a doze in the length of time it takes Bucky to cross to Steve's bedroom. Steve barely registers the bed creaking under his weight, the scratch of the rough sheets sliding across his clothes as Bucky tucks him in, the near silent whisper from his door before it clicks shut.

“Stay here, Steven. Thompson and I are just gonna have a little talk. Sleep. He won't be bothering anyone again.”

Steve bolts upright at the sound of his front door closing. A bad move by the way his head is spinning but the way Bucky talked...

Nothing good was coming Thompson's way.

Steve's scramble for his boots and coat cost him precious time in finding Bucky, but he does and he almost wishes he hadn't.

Bucky isn't walking right. The normal saunter of his over-achieving best friend is gone, replaced with this rolling...primal grace. There isn't a sound coming from Buck's footsteps, not like normal where Bucky just seems to announce his presence before ever entering the room. He glides over the pavement, steps treading lightly over trash and loose stones. In between leaving Steve's apartment and now on the shadowed streets as twilight descends, Bucky has somehow managed to gain a patchwork trench-coat and a worn, battered top hat. Steve isn't sure where or why Bucky acquired those items, but they...fit Bucky, as if there had always been something missing from him and now, looking at his friend in a trench-coat and hat is much like seeing a completed sketch.

A sketch that Steve is becoming extremely wary of by the passing moment. The crack of a back-firing car diverts Steve's attention from following Bucky's path for a scant second, but that is all it takes for him to lose the ghost that Bucky has suddenly seemed to emulate. Steve hurries forward, head twisting in all directions as he searches for some sign that Bucky had passed this way.

His world twists and pain radiates from his arms as Steve finds himself yanked through the mouth of the ally he has been passing.

“Should have stayed home, Steven. Guess you'll have to keep up and see for yourself then.”

Bucky is striding forward again, the trench-coat swirling around his legs and Steve is frozen in the spot, watching the body of his friend move deeper in. That wasn't Bucky's voice. Well, it was and wasn't. The tone was right, he could recognize it as Bucky, but the timbre is wrong and how he sounds words is wrong too. There's a different accent flavoring the vowels and consonants; the Brooklyn twang that had been there for as long as Steve had known him is gone. At first there seems to be no definable accent, but as he rewound the single sentence over in his head, Steve picked up a slight burr in the deeper tones, like a cat's warning growl that reverberates across and through the skin until it's rattling the bones. Not to mention Bucky never called Steve by his full first name, only ever a multitude of nicknames unless he was absolutely beyond pissed and fully immersed in **rage**. Whoever this thing is that is wearing his best friend's face is madder than an entire box of wet cats and Steve is not about to let his friend be framed for murder.

Steve follows, sticking to the shadows as he has been this whole time until he reaches the middle of the ally and subsequently the darkest part in the fast approaching night. That is where Not-Bucky signals him to stay and where Steve watches as Not-Bucky leans against the onyx ink of second entrance of the ally, simply waiting. Steve isn't entirely sure how long they waited, whether it was minutes or hours later, but he personally didn't believe it was long enough when the familiar oily laugh of Thompson filtered through the air.

Smooth as you please, Not-Bucky stepped out of the ally, head down as if focusing on the path beneath his feet rather than the path in front, and clipped Thompson in passing. If Steve didn't know Bucky's strength, he would have believed that Bucky's slighter form clipping against Thompson's larger one really did send Bucky sprawling. He did know better, however, and with how this wasn't Steve's Bucky....

The implications of what was coming chilled Steve's blood.

Steve watched with the morbid fascination of seeing an oncoming train wreck as the next several seconds unfolded. Thompson hauled Bucky from the ground (five finger-sized bruises throb on Steve's arm in sympathy) laughing at Bucky's pitiful attempts at apologies, before sending his moll away with promises of catching up once he had taken care of the crust who dared wrinkle his good suit. It was going against everything Steve was and believed to stand in the shadows and do nothing to help. There are times though when Steve knew that he was more of a hindrance than a help and this, with a broken arm and body sore from its earlier beating, is one of those.

Not-Bucky stumbles back into the ally, Thompson's hands falling back from the hearty shove he had given. There is a predatory gleam in Thompon's eyes as he watches his prey collapse against the grimy brick wall.

“Yer even more pathetic than that loser Rogers was earlier. Gave 'im a real good lickin' when he failed to show me some respect. Just like I'm gonna show you. Maybe you'll scream just as pretty.”

No matter how many times he replayed that moment in his head, Steve will never be able to pinpoint when Not-Bucky moved or when he suddenly gained the scissors now sticking out of Thompson's palm and pinning him to the same brick wall Not-Bucky had been panting against seconds ago. All Steve knew and would ever know is that Thompson's screams of agony are muffled by Not-Bucky's hand, that the blood rushing from around the blades is oil black in the low light of the alley, and there is a pleasant familiar half-smirk tugging at the face of his best friend.

“Get it out now. No one can hear ya...at least, not until I let them.” Eventually Thompson's screams died to hiccuping sobs, but the smile never left Not-Bucky's face. If Steve was reading the expression right from the way Not-Bucky's head tilted and eyes fell to half mast, he would almost say that it grew in happiness the longer Thompson's screams held out.

This wasn't Bucky.

“Mmm. Better. Now we can have ourselves a little chat, about the conduct one should have around those I've claimed.”

“W-who...are....you?”

Bucky never enjoyed torturing their bullies. He always said it only made them like those they fought against. Hypocritical.

“You can call me Buchanan. Though I've heard the rest of your slimy little Underworld friends have taken to calling me by a more...colorful moniker.”

“M-Mad...Hatter.”

“Yeu-P.” The popped 'P' echoed loudly in the alley. Steve startled as did Thompson which only caused the scissor blades to dig further into the already mangled flesh of Thompson's hand. Before the scream escaped, Not-Bu – no, _Buchanan_ and that name really irked Steve because that was Bucky's name not this..thing masquerading as his best friend, pinched Thompson's lips together muffling the sound.

“Nope, not a peep. I'm not done with my lesson yet. Now, I recommend you keep very still, Thompson. Wouldn't want to put any more damage on your hand as there already is, now would we?”

Buchanan proceeded to bring forth another pair of scissors from the volumes of his coat. Thompson panicked, swinging wildly with his free hand, kicking frantically in primal hope. If he had been hoping to land another blow, the second pair of scissors imbedding the once free hand into the wall dissuaded such hope from flaring into flames.

From this angle, Steve couldn't see Buchanan's face but whatever expression he had was enough to keep Thompson from screaming in renewed pain, to petrified in terror to utter a sound.

“Shall I immobilize your legs as well, Thompson, or are we done with futile struggles and fancies of escape?”

Steve was disquieted at how pathetic Thompson had become in such a few short minutes. This truly wasn't his best friend anymore and it was breaking his heart to see what his friend had become.

“Bucky...” the whisper should not have reached the monster's ears, but he turned towards Steve as if he heard. Steve felt hope despite the fact that the eyes appeared the wrong color, like molten steel instead of the familiar playful ice. Buchanan was responding as if he was Bucky, which implied that....

Buchanan was Bucky, in some form or another. If this is the case, than maybe Steve could reach past Buchanan to Bucky.

“Please....stop.”

Several tense moments passed, broken only by Thompson's whimpers.

“It appears to be your lucky day, Thompson. You're fate has been decided. But first-” again, his hands disappeared into some unseen pocket and produced a filleting knife alongside white thread.

“A little insurance against future acts.”

Steve is horrified. He has never been squeamish about blood _-he's been in too many fights to be turned off by the sight_ \- and from experience he knows that head wounds bleed the most, but watching Buchanan carve Thompson's face like a turkey dinner....

The rivers of blood flowing down ashen skin was, turning Steve's stomach.

“Did you know that some ancient cultures believed the soul was contained in a person's blood and that, if certain rituals were done properly, one could control the very life and actions of the one the blood belongs. That's why ancient cultures were so superstitious. The right people, witches and sorcerers and shamans and the like, used that to their advantage. Give them a bit of blood or other body matter, they could control your very life. Piss off the wrong person, you could find yourself dead from mysterious means. Kiss up the right arses, you could find yourself extremely lucky.” By this point, Thompson couldn't even scream without fear of the cuts on his cheeks splitting open. He was moaning something fierce however, and that irritated Buchanan if the hissed order to man up was any indication.

“I'm sure you've heard the tales circulating about me; how I practice dark magic, how I have people's souls sewn into my coat. You've dismissed them as untrue, I'd wager; the frightened ramblings of yellow-bellied cowards with no sense of reality.” Buchanan wiped the blood stained knife on a clean portion of Thompson's clothes before taking the white thread from its place in his breast pocket. He unrolled several inches that he cut with the now clean knife. With all the finesse of a painter, he dipped and rolled the white thread until crimson liquid dripped from the string.

“Those stories...” He threaded a needle pulled from his hat before stitching Thompson's name onto his left sleeve. Once he was done, the wet blood spread into a dirt stain from the lettering. Then he met Thompson's terrified, agonized gaze. The grin Buchanan gave was wide and teeth filled, a predator satisfied at the end of a hunt.

“All true. Now I have your soul attached to my coat. Step out of line once and I will know, I will find you, and I will _destroy you_.” Buchanan ripped the scissors from Thompson and the wall, turning away from the sobbing mess that was once a mob member.

“Feel free to scream now.” Buchanan walked deeper into the ally, towards Steve. “A pleasure as always, Thompson. Whether we do this again or not is entirely up to you. Have a pleasant night.”

Buchanan's grip was firm, not like Steve expected from this creature bearing his best friend's face, but more like Bucky's grip when Steve had managed to irritate him with another back alley fight. That familiarity kept Steve from fighting against the hold until they were once more at the entrance they had come through. Thompson's screams followed them.

“Bucky! Buck, stop!”

“My name, Steven, is Buchanan.” There was irritation, but none of the bone chilling anger Steve had heard in Buchanan's interaction with Thompson.

“Then why do you respond to that name, the name of my best friend? Why do you have his face? Who are you if you aren't my Bucky?!” these questions had been burning inside Steve since he had first caught a glimpse of this...whatever he was. “Why did you do that? ” that was the most burning question and one Steve regretted he could only force his voice to whisper.

A heavy sigh exhaled from Buchanan before he gently- _gently!_ \- turned Steve to face him.

“I am Buchanan and always have been Buchanan. Bucky is familiar though and so that is the reason for my responsive behavior.” He is serious, Steve sees, as serious as Bucky during school tests and work days and when he has been tasked with a job of some kind or another. The gunmetal grey eyes have lighted back to recognizable blue yet still hard steel lingers in the corners.

“As for why?” There is a hand, firm and strong, on Steve's shoulder and he remembers that same grip from Bucky on the day of Mrs. Rogers' funeral. _Was it only a few short weeks ago?_ Whoever Buchanan is, he is also Steve's Bucky. These little gestures and actions proof enough. Though, if Steve had any doubt left, Buchanan's next words abolished any lingering.

“No one touches my family with intent to harm. _I won't allow them._ ”

Steve believed him.

Not because of what he had just witnessed, though that played a factor, but because it was such a Bucky-phrase that Steve would have believed Buchanan on that fact alone.

Bucky fought for family.

Bucky bled for family.

Bucky loved his family.

Yet despite what Buchanan had shown Steve of just how far a part of Bucky would go for family, there was still some voice in Steve's head telling him that Bucky would never kill for family. Threaten, sure. Maim...well, Steve hadn't believed that and look what conceptions tonight shattered. But Steve would swear to his grave that Bucky was no killer. Not for the enjoyment of taking a life. Probably not even for self-defense. Bucky didn't have the heart to be a killer, Buchanan not withstanding.

Later, when Buchanan had escorted Steve back to the apartment, he stopped the exhausted young man from entering. Steve turned a questioning eye to the psychopathic personality behind him.

“I simply want to avoid confusion or fear from you in the future.”

Steve willed his face not to show how well he did _not_ believe that statement. He didn't quite succeed if the eye-roll from the blood splattered man was any indication.

“I do not practice dark magic, nor is what I said about blood in ancient cultures correct. Blood was more often used as a ritual sacrifice to appease the culture's gods than it was in controlling other humans. However, fear is a powerful motivator when used correctly. Mr. Thompson will now think twice about crossing my path again.”

 _Oh._ That actually made a lot of sense in the events of tonight. If Steve wasn't so exhausted, he might actually have felt a bit of appreciation for the tactic (buried under a ton of revulsion because that still went against everything he and _Bucky_ fought for) but all he could manage was a slow nod of acknowledgment. Buchanan was right of course, because that was how bullies worked. They induced fear into their victims which resulted in said victims doing whatever the bullies desired simply so they could hopefully escape whatever action or threat the bully had used to induce the fear. Effective and poetic in this case.

Buchanan searched Steve's face, for fear or loathing or revulsion Steve wasn't entirely sure of, but whatever the case may have been, Buchanan saw nothing of it and so gave a single nod of his own.

“Sleep well, Steven.”

Steve watched Buchanan melt into the night shadows, the soft swish of his coat fading rapidly while the wind dispersed the coppery scent of blood that had clung to him. _He was never going to tell Bucky about this, unless Bucky brought it up himself._

Steve's Ma had talked often enough of her patients and the stories she had heard around the hospital, that he knew bringing up the fact that Bucky seemed to have a psychopathic personality was not the smartest idea. Bucky would slip into a deep depression and possibly even kill himself in some maybe not so misguided fear that he would hurt/maim/kill his family. In this instance, though Steve wished desperately that there was some other way to help his friend, silence was golden.

 

~MOH~

 

Bucky never brought up what happened with Thompson that night, even went as far as swearing up and down that he had no idea Steve had been injured until the day after because he had gotten back from a twelve hour shift too exhausted to make his way over the Steve's apartment like he had planned. He had been angry, but not the the degree that Buchanan had shown, and that made Steve wonder. Did Bucky subconsciously realize he had already avenged his best friend or was he trying to make light of what had happened the night before so Steve wouldn't bring it up?

Steve really truly wished he had brought it up.

Four months after that first introduction to Buchanan, Steve was woken from a rare dead sleep to pounding on his door. More cuts and bruises than he'd care to admit to found their place on his skin as he scrambled for the door, dressing as he went. He's sloppy and still mostly undressed, heaven knows what his ma would say to that, when he jimmies the door open to see Becky Barnes panting and half-wild in the pre-morning light.

“Becky?! What-What's goin' on? What's wrong?!” Steve has never seen Becky this frantic in all the years he's known her. She had been too little when the twins were born to worry about her ma and Bucky had kept her well distracted for their pa's sake. Becky is one of the strongest dames he knew, no-nonsense and smart as a whip. Bucky has taught her well. For her to be this undone...

“Come in, Beck. Take a moment to gather yaself then tell me what's got ya ablaze.” He finishes tucking his clothes into the proper places as she barely manages to make her way to the rickety couch he had purchased dead cheap a few years back. Steve's ma had always been a firm believer that tea was a cure all for ailments of the soul and Steve knew that Becky had always been calmed faster when Sarah Rogers communicated in her native lilting Irish Gaelic. Thankfully, the Barnes parents had been all for their children learning of Sarah's homeland, even learned the language themselves. In turn, Winifred taught Sarah recipes from her grandparent's native Romania, phrases and conversation she had learned at her grandmother's knee and subsequently taught her children. If Steve wanted any answers, he needed to calm Becky down with familiar sounds that invoked calm. This certainly won't be the last time he thanked his ma for everything she taught him.

“Ar mhaith leat tae?” He drifted into the kitchen, giving her space to compose herself and to start making at least himself a cup of tea. He had the stove on and water in the battered kettle before she replied.

“Is cuma liom.” Her voice is cracked, broken and reedy little thing, so unlike her strong soul that carried her challenges with surety of her choices. Steve breaks inside, hearing the girl whom is as good as his own blood sister so shattered.

“Bainne, dhá siúcraí?”

“Yes.”

Steve hands her a chipped mug, porcelain already warming from the hot water, and sits beside her. He makes no comment about the almost dangerous quake in her hands. Instead, he sips the scalding tea and breathes. Waiting is always the hardest part, but the most necessary. Becky is too much like Bucky sometimes, internalizing everything until they have a chance to examine whatever it is that set them off in the first place. Steve has learned through hard experience to let either of the two eldest Barnes children come to him first after they've had their time.

Finally, after she's drained her mug twice, Becky's breathing has calmed and her hands have steadied. Steve doesn't allow himself to tense, knows that will set her off again, but gives her his undivided attention because as her nerves had calmed, his had shot up. So Steve watches and waits and prays like he has never prayed before when he learns.

“Charlie....One a da paperboys found her 'tween Mrs. Smith's and home. She...she's alive but someone beat her, Stevie, beat her real bad. They...they violated her, took what wasn't _theirs._ God Above, Stevie, her eyes...she's eleven, only eleven!” Becky didn't need to describe the horrors she had seen in her sister's eyes, Steve could see its reflection in hers. Steve's own stomach lurches in disgust and horror, but he pushes it down to hold her as she cries.

“Where's Bucky?” Steve is assuming Bucky is with Charlie, since of the three sisters Charlie has always been Bucky's special girl. Better to confirm though.

“He's gone.” _What?_ He couldn't have heard that right.

“What?”

“He's gone, Stevie. Bucky's the one who opened the door, got the story as far as the paperboy knew. He brought her to Ma and Pa then he just...he just LEFT!” Becky is angry now and Steve is secretly glad because an angry Becky he knows how to handle. A crying one? Not so much. “She's been asking for him for hours and he's not anywhere! Rosie and I've searched all his normal haunts, but there's nothin! Where is he, Steve?” Oh, how Steve wants to reassure her that everything will be alright, that Bucky will walk through the door and sweep Becky into stronger arms than Steve's and make everything right again. However, the cold, hard pit in his stomach is screaming differently, that nothing is ever going to be the same, how can it when Steve knows the secret of his best friend. If Buchanan went so far when Steve had a broken arm, how far will he go to avenge Bucky's baby sister?

Steve needed to find Bucky.

Pushing Becky away gently, Steve cupped her shoulders, anchoring her and himself against being overwhelmed by the situation.

“Becky, how long has Bucky been gone?” If it had only been a few hours there might still be a chan –

“Two days.” _Shit._

 

_~MOH~_

 

It had taken a little convincing on his part to get Becky to remain in his apartment, but she had been exhausted and in no condition to go home. Steve left her asleep on his bed with instructions to help herself to the icebox and a bath when she woke up. Already he had been scouring the streets of Brooklyn for four hours and he hadn't seen hide nor hair of his best friend. Images and scenarios play out in his head, each worse than the last.

_Where the hell is Bucky?!_

“Oi! You!” The snap click of heels on pavement is the only warning Steve gets before a stinging pain cracks across his cheek and echoes in his neck as his head whips around. “Ya keep yer whacky friend on a leash!”

Rubbing his throbbing cheek, Steve turned stormy blue eyes on the made up moll in front of him. His head is pounding in time with his erratic pulse and he can't quite focus on her face, but he recognizes the shape of her body and exceedingly fake coloring of her hair.

“You're Thompson's dame.”

“Yes, and you're Barnes' twit pally. Yer lucky I don't call da coppers on 'im for what he did to my Terry.”

“What did he do, Ma'am?” He really doesn't want to be polite for once, but his ma would rise from the grave if he wasn't, so he'll give the moll some respect. But his Ma will forgive him if she pushes his already frail patience. Bucky _needs_ him and Steve is not going to let some gangster's dame keep him from finding him.

“He came over late last night, rantin' and ravin' about Terry's brother violatin' Barnes's baby sistah and how, if Terry don't go tellin' 'im right dat instant where Eddy was, he was gonna show Terry just what his brothah was in for.” Steve has to take a moment to translate because while he had lived in Brooklyn his whole life, her accent was a bit thick to his already hard hearing.

“Did he tell him? Where is Eddy?”

“Not at firs'. But den Barnes started beating the stuffin' outa Terry. Terry jus' got done healin' up from dat last encounter with yer boy! Well, I ain't gonna let Terry take da wrap for his brothah so I told Barnes exactly where to find Eddy.” He really had to keep his temper in check or he'd wind up shaking the dame. Her smug tone wasn't helping in the least either.

“Well?”

“'For I go tellin' ya what I told yer boy, you gotta give 'im a message for me.” _Don't hit a dame, don't hit a dame, don't hit a dame..._

“Yes?”

“He comes near my Terry again, he bettah be expectin' a kiss off. Terry ain't the only one with connections. You tell him that.”

“I'll tell him. Now where is Bucky?”

 

_~MOH~_

 

“ **Oh my** _ **God.**_ ” A prayer and a plea, a soul deep whisper and Steve has never been more grateful for his poor eyesight because he will remember every fuzzy detail he sees, fill in the gaps with the artist within and he wants to scream.

Red. Everywhere Steve looked, red dripped from ceiling and wall and furniture. The late afternoon sun cast a burnish gold hue that did nothing to pretty up the scene in front of him. Terry's moll had given him directions to one of the old warehouses along the Brooklyn docks, and of course, it had to be the one farthest from Steve's location. It had taken him five hours just to get there and a further two to find the right warehouse. Now, looking at what had become of the massive condemned building, Steve couldn't help the flare of anger at Becky for not coming to him sooner.

The doors creak ominously when he pushes them open, a blast of hot putrid air mixed with dead fish and salt sea causes a revolt in his stomach. Wiping his mouth, Steve steels himself against the smell and enters the building. There is no fortifying against the sight.-

Bodies lay like abandoned toys on the ground and draped over furniture. Chairs are either*+ upright or tipped over, pieces of tables litter the ground. Glass crunches under his shoes, releasing the cloying scent of sun warmed alcohol to join with the already overwhelming stench. Bullets and knives looked to be the main cause of death, but Steve saw a few bodies with limbs missing. Those seemed to be further in, closer to a built in room in the far back right side corner.

The quiet grates on Steve's nerves, because every pop of metal expanding in the summer sun sounds like a gunshot in his ears. He's not sure he has ever hated silence more.

Thirty minutes of careful traversing later, Steve finally comes to the constructed office in the corner. There is a light swinging, one of those bare bulb kinds, creating all sorts of nauseating shadows. Steve had been cautious up to this point, the very real possibility of one of the corpses not actually being a corpse and popping up to shot him, quieting his urge to hurry hurry hurry. Seeing the figure kneeling in the middle of the room, right underneath the swaying light? Steve abandons caution and sprints forward, dropping painfully to his knees in front of Bucky, hands fluttering around his friend but not quiet touching.

“Oh my God, Bucky! Buck, can you hear me? Come on, Buck, it's me, it's Steve, come on, Pal, say something. Are you hurt? What happened? Bucky? Bucky?!”

Bucky is drenched in blood, the white of his shirt an ugly mud brown that sticks to his skin, his brown-black locks plastered to his forehead. His hands that Steve has always admired for their strength lie limply in Bucky's lap, just as caked as the rest of him in the red brown life substance. His eyes stare at nothing, refuse to focus on Steve, the only white in the sea of copper mud. If it weren't for the breathes expanding his chest, Steve could have easily assumed Bucky was as dead as all the other corpses. The stillness is not Bucky, not his energetic brother who couldn't stand to sit still for any length of time, who spoke with his whole body in sweeping gestures of life and love. Buchanan had been stillness, the kind of predatory stillness before the pounce, but even then he had a presence that spoke of Bucky's unmitigated energy. This is death stillness. The language of corpses and cemeteries and _not Bucky._ Steve chokes back a sob.

There doesn't seem to be any injuries on Bucky, but it is so hard to tell underneath the dried blood. Steve doesn't want to hurt Bucky in any case, keeps up a steady stream of Bucky's name and begging pleas to wake him up without resorting to violence, but with every passing minute it becomes clearer that he might have to take extreme measures.

“Bucky, _please_ , wake up. Charlie needs ya, Jerk, and Becky was _cryin'_ and you know I ain't good with cryin' dames, especially your sisters and dammit, I don't even know about Rosie or yer Ma!” Long fingers push tacky curls off sheet white skin stained with scarlet dirt, ignoring the tears falling from summer sky eyes. “ _Please._ ”

A flutter. A minute meeting of lashes over frozen eyes that causes Steve to hold his breath, breathlessly waiting for another sign.

“ _St....Ste...vie?”_ Its a broken, stuttering little whisper of a word, but Steve feels fit to burst because Bucky spoke, Bucky is waking up, and now Steve can get him _home!_

“Yeah, it's me, Buck, it's Stevie. Are you hurt?” He can't tamp down the hope blossoming like dandelions in spring, doesn't examine the dark pocket in his gut that's tainting everything in shadow.

“Ste..vie?” the dark bubble is growing larger and he keeps ignoring; five year old logic winning out “ _I can't see it, it can't see me”._

“Yeah, Buck?” Glacier eyes focus finally, locking with summer sky, and Steve feels the wind knocked out of him at the sheer horror in his brother's eyes. This is Bucky, not Buchanan, that Steve is looking at and all the happiness he felt at getting Bucky to come back from wherever he was evaporates like water on a sun baked sidewalk.

“I..I killed 'em. Stevie....I killed 'em all.” bodies and blood and death, phantom screams Steve can see in the black pinpricks of Bucky's pupils. This is Steve's nightmare and so much worse, because after that night he had a sense of comfort knowing that Buchanan would be there in place of Bucky. There is no comfort here, in the stench of summer rotted meat and cloying copper tang that lodges in his nose and burns behind his eyes. Buchanan was never here; Steve can't blame a psychotic personality when the blood is literally staining his best friend's hands red.

There isn't an ocean big enough for the pain streaming down Bucky's face, valiantly trying to cleanse the brick dust from his stubble-rough cheeks.

“They touch..touched Charlie, Stevie. Those bastards touched _my_ Charlie and she needed me and I wasn't _THERE_! I was s'pposed ta protect her, s'pposed ta protect all of the girls... I wasn't there...STEVIE, I WASN'T THERE!” Bucky breaks, too much running through him to quell, gripping the threadbare shirt of the only solid thing he has left. Steve holds him, becomes the rock Bucky needs, and curses his stupidly frail body for the ten thousandth time as it quakes under Bucky's grief and rage and horror.

“I'm here Buck, I've got ya. Everythin's gonna be okay.” Steve hates lying, knows that nothing is going to be the same after this, but damn it all, Bucky needed assurance in whatever form. So Steve holds Bucky, keeps as steady as possible even as Bucky tries to shake himself out of his own skin, even as Steve's hearing is shot from the wails and half-articulate words his brother’s soul forces from his lips. Never stops lying, because maybe if he says it enough, he'll start believing the lies himself.

An hour passes in that manner, Bucky sobbing and Steve whispering reassurance into sticky curls, never stopping the internal prayers for guidance because Steve was never equipped to deal with this kind of pain, always better at speaking with his fists. But Steve's ma has always been a saint, even from beyond the grave, and she gives him the words he can't find, soft and sweet and low, coaxing past the heartbreak to wrap the grieving soul in rich emerald grass and plum heather, the promises of brighter tomorrows.

“ _O ba ba mo leanabh_

_Ba mo leanabh, ba_

_O ba ba mo leanabh_

_Nì mo leanabhs' an ba ba”_

The old lullaby his ma had sung him each time he was sick, it's soft tone gentle on his head, the actual meaning a fire for his soul to be better, prove to everyone he can be useful.

“ _Ged tha mi gun chaoraich agam_

_'S caoraich uil' aig càch_

_Ged tha mi gun chaoraich agam_

_Dèan a leanabh an ba ba”_

Steve sounds nothing like Sarah Rogers, voice too deep despite how small he is to accurately portray the sweetness she had, but he tries his best and it seems to work if the slowing of Bucky's erratic wails is any indication.

“ _Eudail mhòir a shluaigh an dòmhain_

_Dhòirt iad d'fhuil an dé_

_'S chuir iad do cheann air stob daraich_

_Tacan beag bho do chré”_

Bucky is calmed down to gulping air now, nose too stuffed to breathe without choking him, and damn if it wasn't the greatest sound Steve has heard. Except for when Bucky said his name. That was Steve's first favorite sound of the day. Bucky is still quaking though, even if it's more of a loose limb shudder from one to exhausted to control their own appendages. Steve doesn't mind waiting a little longer before going home. His best friend is his priority, not his stiff jointed knees.

“ _Dhìrich me bheinn mhòr gun anal_

_Dhìrich agus thearn_

_Chuirinn falt mo chinn do d' chasan_

_Agus craicionn mo dhà làimh”_

The song ends and Bucky is pliable to Steve's suggestions, so Steve finds himself wobbling with knees threatening to collapse at any moment through the twilight lit bodies, bone thin arm guiding his brother's solid form outside the nightmare house. Bucky leans against a dock post, eyes vacant but not like before, more that of the soul-weary instead of shell-shocked. He's still not _Bucky_ but this is closer than before and the dandelion puff in Steve dares to bloom with hope. As it is, now it is Steve's turn to clean up Bucky's mess and he does, with matches and oil that spark brightly and burn brilliant red.

Red like blood.

Steve doesn't look back on the fire consuming the warehouse of horror, merely guides Bucky down the lengths of the docks until they are far enough away that they won't draw suspicion. There he gets Bucky to dip into the bay waters, to wash off what he can so that they won't be stopped for questions along the road home. Bucky's clothes are a lost cause, the blood soaked into the threads for too long to ever be removed. He knows Becky will try to salvage them anyway.

Bucky doesn't say a word the four hours it takes to get back to Steve's apartment. Steve is kind of glad for the silence. He doesn't know what to say. There really is nothing to say that will make the fact that your best friend is a murderer an easier medicine to swallow. Beside that, Steve is having a hard enough time putting one foot in front of the other. Talking takes too much strength he just doesn't have, curse his genetics.

The flickering light illuminating the stairs up to his apartment is such a relief that Steve almost sobs for joy. He doesn't remember making the trip up the stairs but they do because his hand is on the knob and he hears Becky moving behind the thin door when a large hand grips his shoulder and _holds him still._ He wills himself not to stiffen, but Steve is fairly sure he doesn't succeed.

“Steven.” That isn't Bucky though Steve questions if it is even Buchanan because the psychopathic personality never seemed like the weary type, those veterans with the world on their shoulders undertones in their voices. Steve doesn't turn, doesn’t need too, but he knows that Buchanan recognizes having his undivided attention.

“I would have done this myself. The rage though...The rage swept and swallowed me whole. There is something...broken now; the memories are breaking, maddening madness snapping crocodile jaws...I'll take the memories, consume them like hearts in hands because they should have been my memories so they will be mine and maybe the broken madness will mend. Will you fix the brokenness, Steven?”

Steve can imagine the look in those gun metal eyes, pleading and calm and resigned but oh so determined, everything he's ever admired and loved about his brother. What else can he do but promise to fix Bucky? God knows Bucky has fixed Steve's issues enough times to fill the bay two times over. So Steve nods and turns the knob, only just managing to catch Bucky from pitching face first onto the floor. Becky is there then, lifting and wrangling her older brother's unresponsive body past the threshold and onto the couch.

She says nothing about Bucky's clothes or the stains on Steve's own, just goes about fixing a hot bath via the two copper pots Steve owns boiling on the stove. If Steve didn't love her as a sister, he would have kissed her simply for that because she doesn't ask. Not about the smell or the blood or whether her baby sister has been avenged at the hands of her big brother. Merely mops at the fevered brow Bucky has gained from the exertions of the past three days and has Steve burn her brother's shirt and trousers.

Becky doesn't ask to scrub them first.

Steve doesn't tell her about Eddy Thompson hanging from the ceiling by his own entrails, trousers hanging around his ankles and a conspicuous lack of a certain organ, though the mass amount of dried blood around his mouth speaks of possibilities. How there are black holes where the gangster's eyes had been and his arms end in stumps, the caverns on the side of his head matting the red hair brunette with blood.

Her imagination is vivid and vicious enough as is.

Instead he pushes his aching limbs beyond their limit and oh, how he is going to pay for this, but family comes first always, so he helps her clean Bucky of his sin, baptizing the eldest Barnes child in gratefulness for the horrors he has brought on himself in penance to the one he feels he failed. When Becky returns the next afternoon with new clothes, she also brings grace in the form of a lettered plea from Charlie to Bucky. Steve loses his job but doesn't begrudge Bucky, merely smiles through the fever and snot he gained from his adventure as he listens to Becky recount the agonized reunion.

How Bucky had fallen to his knees at the bedside of the caramel haired youngest sister, features broken and damaged with grief, as he sobbed his apologies for _not being there._ How Charlie, with her amber cocoa eyes darker and older than they ever should have been allowed the chance to become, softens and tugs her grieving wayward brother onto the bed beside her for much needed cuddles. They don't let go of each other for hours, Bucky curled protectively around Charlie and Charlie keeping a death grip on her big brother's shirt.

Later, Bucky will admit to not remembering anything that happened after seeing Charlie shattered and bleeding in the arms of a faceless paperboy. The three days in between are a blur in his memory, just various shades of red and white. He thinks something bad must have happened because he'll wake up choking on screams, but he _can't remember_.

Steve says nothing. Gives lies disguised as truthful assurances and distracts Bucky with his latest back alley fight or the latest comic strip to appear in the paper. He can't tell Bucky about the warehouse or Eddy Thompson, never gives Bucky Terry's moll's message. Buchanan is Bucky's unknown secret and the warehouse is Steve's price to keep Bucky with him and the girls.

He will keep his silence to protect Bucky, just like Bucky has always protected Steve.

 

 

 

 

~MOH~

 

Yes, Bucky has nothing against violence in the defense of family virtue/honor/Steve. But outside of those conditions, Bucky is firmly a pacifist and will charm his way out of a fight if at all possible (Steve's friendship means this is a situation as rare as a blue moon). He sees what war and violence has done to families – _Steve confides once as they lay together on top of couch cushions, that he still hears his mother crying for his pa. Steve doesn't know how to make her feel better; it's not like he's perfectly healthy boy who can get better paying jobs to help with bills. Bucky doesn't comment on the embittered tone, merely hugs the small body closer. There is nothing either of them can do to bring back Joseph Rogers. “Just live, Stevie. She'll like that a lot more, I reckon.” –_ and he prays that he will never have to go through a war like that. He doesn't want to fight a war.

The second world war enters America with all the concussive force of a missile strike. Pearl Harbor incites America into a righteous rage and Bucky is devastated when Steve insists on joining the army. He tries to dissuade Steve – _Think about what happened to your pa, Stevie. What would your ma have said about ya joinin' the army? Don't throw your life away!_ – but Steve is adamant and stubborn and he'll keep trying trying trying until he's arrested or some poor fool of a good Samaritan takes pity on Steve and allows him to join. Bucky knows this about Steve and the implications terrify him. He already has enough nightmares (memories) of Steve dying from some disease that Mrs. Rogers brought home with her from her job at the TB ward, sickly yellow and bloated from infection buildup or pasty white and skeletal from fever burning everything within. Now he has to contend with the idea of Steve's skinny chest blooming vermillion on some muddy unknown battlefield in his nightmares. He _cannot_ lose Steve!

Then Bucky's draft letter comes and he wants to howl in agony, to curl under the covers and pray that the letter is a hallucination created through the poor plumbing. Steve listens in quiet seething jealousy as Bucky rants about the stupidity of war, of how he'll contend the draft and get out of it because his family still needs him _here_ not _there_! Never mind the fact that all but one of Bucky's sisters are married and have little ones of their own; they don't need Bucky.

Uncharitably, Steve thinks for a moment that Bucky is a coward for not wanting to lay down his life for his country. If Steve had Bucky's health, he'd be down at the recruitment office _yesterday._ Steve has no right to do anything less then all the others laying down their lives. Then Steve sees the genuine fear lurking the the pale blue eyes of his best friend and feels guilt. Bucky is a fighter but he doesn't desire the fight. He may sometimes revel in the bloodshed of those who foolishly threatened his family but a war is nightmares and darkness and monsters hidden as men. War irrevocably changes a man and Bucky is terrified of how he would change. Steve is a bit apprehensive on that front as well. Steve _knows_ what Bucky is capable of, knows that demons would run at the sight of a war-changed James Buchanan Barnes because already bullies run from a protective, vindictive Buchanan Barnes. But Bucky is _good_ too so maybe, the change won't be _bad_ (Steve tries to ignores the quiet whisper of _lying liar, it'll be so much worse than simply_ bad). Still, Steve is going to try with everything he has to get into the Army, even if it no longer is just about fighting a bigger bully than the ones in Brooklyn, because Bucky is going to need someone to bring him back from the dark void.

In between working as many hours as possible to pick up the slack from Bucky's pay, Steve makes it to four different recruiting offices in the time it takes for Bucky to go through Basic Training at Camp McCoy located in Wisconsin. It's hard going at first, not having Bucky there to make sure Steve's eating properly or taking his medication or to help bandage him after yet another fight. Steve adjusts though, and looks forward to mail days when Bucky would send letters home. Those letters bring a bit of sunshine back into the Barnes and Rogers households. In return, Steve makes sure that Bucky gets a new sketch of his family with each reply letter, just so Bucky can rest easier at night knowing they are doing well.

Familiar familial camaraderie encompasses the two households on those normal days that have suddenly gained an almost sanctified meaning. Second Sunday best wear is chosen and donned; the better crockery placed on the table and money is splurged just a little bit for a better meal than typical; the extended families gather together and harmony rests among the members as Pa George reads Bucky's latest missive from training. They laugh freely at Bucky's caricatures of fellow trainees and harsh Commanders; snicker joyfully and roll eyes in fond exasperation at the tales of pranks Bucky manages to pull off in order to lighten just a little the tense stress filled atmosphere of the camp. Steve and Becky's husband have to hold Becky back at the small confessions of fear and anxiety over what Bucky is being trained to become. She would gladly have stormed the White House if it meant sparing her beloved brother the pain she could hear in his written tongue. Steve would storm its gates right beside her. Becky was as fearsome as any man when she had a cause to defend and nothing got her blood flowing quicker than any show of pain from her older brother and his best friend. Bucky and Steve were her heroes; she didn't need any shiny medals or pieces of fancy paper to tell her what her boys were already at heart. Becky just needed them living and breathing at her side, as they had since that first fight together.

She prays she'll recognize her Bucky Bear when the war is all said and done.

She fears she won't....

_Because he won't have come home to her at all._

Bucky's letters are remiss outside of the bare bones when it comes to any special training he's doing. A passing remark about how his eye for detail and calculative mind have been noted in the way he trains in marksmanship. How the higher officials managed in some way to get a hold of a training regiment he had created on a whim in boredom and seemed to consider it good enough. Other trainees had talked of rumors flying around about a change in the sniper training program. He had no delusions that his little thought scribbles were even remotely good enough for something as big as an army wide change. He hadn't even edited it for grammar or triple checked his math! It was all theory and speculation mostly based on what he observed from their training reports. But there must have been something he was doing because he seemed to be rising in rank and he had no idea how to _stop_. The rest of the training, on the other hand, often leaves him in a state of exhaustion not even working a twelve hour shift at the docks could have given him.

A bight side is that the dames won't be able to leave him alone with how well a figure he cuts in the uniform. The whole family groans at their doll crazy member.

Then it's like Christmas and Easter and every birthday rolled into one when they get the letter that Bucky is coming home before he gets his orders and assignment. There is a frenzied manic energy about the various homes as the extended Barnes family prepares for what could quite possibly be their last chance with their loved one. Steve doesn't allow himself to intrude beyond one stop on the day Bucky returns to say hello on his way to work. The Barnes family need to have this time with Bucky more than Steve does. That does not mean he doesn't celebrate the return of his brother in his own way. After the fourth failed attempt to get into the army, Steve treats himself to a film, mostly to bolster his spirits after yet another rejection based on his ridiculously long list of ailments. He doesn't really pay much attention to what he picked, just that it's a new cartoon based on an old fairytale, something Buck and himself would have taken the girls to see when they were younger.

Not that he actually ends up watching the film. Nope, he much prefers taking disrespecting pills to the back ally of the theater and giving them manner classes. By the third punch, Steve has a split lip and his head is spinning. Maybe he should have thought the trashcan lid shield move better? The fourth punch sends him head first into the trashcan itself and now his ears are most certainly ringing. Yeah, Steve was somewhat content to lay there and it was easy to ignore the stench after all the practice he's had.

“HEY!” Steve jolted. He knew that voice! Knew it like he knew the sky was blue and the Earth rotated around the sun. The familiar protective growl that deepened the Brooklyn twang into something promising threats of further harm should actions continue caressed Steve's ears and urged him back up up up onto his feet.

“Pick on someone your own size.”

Yep. That was Bucky alright. Somehow managing to protect Steve and pick on Steve's height without directly saying anything to Steve's face. Hands on his knees, shaking off the dizziness and trying to regulate his breathing back into normal range, Steve could just hear the punch-kick combo Bucky favored when dealing with the bullies that only had one or two strikes against them. Or were just not worth Bucky's time and energy.

Steve swore that Bucky somehow kept a log with pictures and names and transgressions of all the genius boys they fought. He certainly seemed to have a tailor made system in how each individual case was dealt with, at any rate.

“Ya know, sometimes I think you like getting punched.”

Too busy wiping off debris and blood from his thin frame, Steve doesn't respond. This isn't the first time Bucky has tried to wriggle a confession of masochism from Steve. Not that he really needs the confirmation, it's fairly obvious in Steve's actions. Instead, Steve responds as usual;

“I had him on the ropes.” and continues to wipe himself off, pressing a cold palm to his aching temple – _that will definitely bruise_ – only peripherally aware of Bucky bending down to pick up Steve's latest rejected enlistment form. The heavy sigh that follows Steve straitening upright he recognizes as Bucky's _why-are-you-torturing-youself-this-is-absolute-stupidity-Steve._

“So how many times is this?” Steve says nothing, knowing that the number alone would set Bucky off on another tirade. “Oh, so you're from Params now? Ya know it's illegal to lie on your enlistment form. Seriously, Jersey?” Yep. Not telling Bucky this was the fourth time. Though with how exasperated Bucky sounds, Steve has a pretty good guess what has been in Becky's letters about him.

Then Steve looks at Bucky for the first time.

He had seen Bucky when he first got back, but Steve hadn't stuck around, hadn't really paid much attention because it still _hurt_ that Bucky was fit and able and Steve _wasn't_ good enough. This is the first time actually registering Bucky's changes.

Bucky had always been fit, a hard life working as a manual laborer does that to a body's physique, but now he's trimmed and toned and fills the crisp lines of the uniform in a way that Steve understands _why_ Bucky had claimed that the dames wouldn't be able to stay away. That wasn't Bucky's usual jovial boast of sixty-five percent ego, twenty percent wishful thinking, and fifteen percent factual Steve and Bucky's family had originally assumed. If Steve felt see through next to Bucky before, now he's downright invisible. Not just because Bucky is practically at the peak of health, but because there is now a quiet confidence that pulls back the broader shoulders, a predatory lift to the head that can't be mistaken even as Bucky has to bend his head to meet Steve's eyes. Bucky would be beating the girls off with a stick (or the girls would over fighting to be with him) and if Steve wasn't too stunned to do much beyond stare at the reality slapping him in the face, he'd be laughing himself into an attack. His doll crazy best friend would be eaten alive if Bucky wasn't leaving....

“You get your orders?” it's the only explanation why he would have tracked Steve down while wearing his uniform. It seems impossible, and Steve can do nothing but stare in resigned jealousy as Bucky draws himself up, yet Bucky suddenly fills the ally way and yet takes up no room at all, larger and smaller with the release of a weary sigh.

“The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”

Steve's run out of time and Bucky knows this and is resigned to his fate. The gravel quality to his voice is one Steve has only ever heard Bucky use when all other options have been spent and the last remaining one is the road through Hell. It's the voice Bucky uses when he's exhausted physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually and has been given no rest in months. Steve's heard it often enough when he's been sick enough to be hospitalized and Bucky stays with him, not sleeping, barely eating or keeping up his appearances as Bucky was wont to do for days until Steve is coherent and well enough to nag Bucky home. There is no right to be jealous of his best friend who is already living like a dead-man walking. Bucky's not a fighter, but America has made him one. A fearsome killer. Shattering an already broken man only to glue the pieces into something familiarly _Not-Bucky_.

Steve is furious and jealous and gut-wrenching devastated because this man before him is already a war-torn veteran without ever having to see a battle. Bucky should _not_ be fighting when he doesn't _want_ to fight anymore. Steve should be the one going to England because Steve wants to fight the bullies that are the Nazis and if he could, he'd make a deal with God if only to take Bucky's place.

“I should be going.” _To protect you. To have your back like you've had mine. To pull you back when you get to deep._ Steve says none of this but he's sure Bucky hears him anyway. It's in the way Bucky nods his head ever so slightly. _Right back at ya, Punk. But I'm glad it's me, not you._ A lifetime wrapped in a moment and then Bucky is grinning like he used to as he pulls Steve into an affectionate headlock.

“C'mon, man. It's my last night!” There is laughter hidden in Bucky's voice and it lightens the aura around Bucky considerably. Then he's pulling back and shaking off his hand. Steve can see the wrinkle between Bucky's brows as his nose scrunches against the stench of garbage that now clings to Steve. If Bucky steps two feet to the left to give the illusion of still walking with him but staying out of the stench cloud, Steve wisely says nothing. “Gotta get you cleaned up.”

Now....Steve's worried and suspicious. Bucky has that serious tone of voice he uses when he's only partially serious; the rest of it is pure mischief.

“Where are we goin'?”

“The future.”

~MOH~

“I don't see what the problem is. You're about to be the only eligible man in New York. Ya know there's about three million women here.”

The 1943 Stark Expo is bright with swirling colors, flashing with innovated designs that seem to be almost too fantastical to ever come true, pressing heat cooled by the evening breeze from the many bodies walking and looking on every display. Bucky wants to be soaking all this in, breathing the atmosphere deep into his lungs before gunpowder, blood, and charred meat overwhelm him. Instead, he's trying to lift up Steve's spirits from the slump he's fallen in to. Now admittedly, perhaps not the best topic of conversation to discuss with _Steve_ , but...

It's downright hilarious to watch him fluster and flutter his way through a conversation with a dame. Bucky and Becky both have enough on Steve to bleed him dry when he's being particularly obstinate. Setting Steve up on double dates was one of the two eldest Barnes children's favorite past-times in their teen and young adult years. Bucky figured that being his last night, he might as well get some of his own amusement in to look back on later.

“I'd settle for just one.” Bucky truly wished he had more time to work on Steve's confidence levels with dames, because while Steve could draw an almost perfect replica from memory and fearless charge into battle no sweat, women are basically on another planet in regards to Steve's talents with them. Vocally, Bucky blames Becky for Steve's blunt tactics and stuttering fumbles. Secretly, Bucky knows the reason for his brother's lack in this area stems not from Steve or Becky but from the shallow natures of the women in their hometown. So far, none of the double dates has yielded a woman that could look beyond Steve's physical stature to the kind soul within. Bucky holds onto the hope though, because he doesn't want to go into this war with no idea if Steve will be taken care of and loved like he deserves. For now though, Bucky gives a charming half-smirk and waves to catch the attention of the two girls he had asked out tonight.

“Good thing I took care of that for ya.”

“What d'ya tell her about me?" Steve was definitely annoyed. Bucky congratulated himself on not cackling like a madman in the wake of Steve's exasperation. Sometimes Bucky wondered if Steve realized that the way he reacted to this was what made Bucky and Becky keep setting him up. Steve's reactions are just too funny!

“Only the good stuff.” Truly, Bucky should get a medal or something for keeping it together!

Once introductions had been made between Steve and the girls, the group of four meandered through the Expo. Some exhibits illicit sounds of awe, others have the group in stitches from how absurd the concept shown is (cool, but absurd) and Bucky is glad he was able to drag his best friend to this even if advancing technology wasn't exactly Steve's cup of tea. Sure, he'd be amazed by what was shown just like anyone else would, but Bucky knew that Steve didn't have the same desire as Bucky to take it apart and see how it worked before putting it all back together again, to once more _get it to work ._

A familiar flare of pain throbbed behind his eyes. The flash headaches had been occurring a lot more frequently since his Basic Training days, but usually food dulled the effects. It was past dinner time anyway so Bucky felt no shame in suggesting they grab a snack from one of the many venders scattered around. His dame of the night had no qualms in sharing the salted nuts with him, but Steve's girl...

Bucky never liked speaking ill of women. Lord only knows his mother was a force to be reckoned with and his sisters definitely had their mother's spirit. However, this girl was trying his already frayed patience with every snub and look of thinly veiled disgust she directed at Steve. Something clamored in the back of his mind to show the little twist exactly who she's dealing with but Bucky ignores it as he has been since he first 'heard' the voice during his marksman training. He'll sic Becky on her later.

For now, he's being dragged along by his dame towards the stage as the announcer has claimed Howard Stark will now be presenting. Bucky laughs and holds onto his cap because this reaction is so typical of dames nowadays. Stark is as big as any actor, rich as one too, and the man knows how the populace reacts to him. Yes, the man was a genius, Bucky would give him that, but he seemed more the type to use and leave dames than actually respecting women. As an older brother to three lovely sisters, Bucky had a slight (massive) complex when it came to regular Joes and his sisters. Becky's and Chrissy's fellas had a hell of a time convincing Bucky of their honest intentions. Bucky is pretty sure the grilling he gave them has become a horror story to warn young suitors about the Barnes Sisters (he's hoping it will eventually spread to be a warning against maltreatment of any dame). He made sure to give them a how-to manual for when Lizzie started bringing beaus around. Steve had tried comparing Bucky to Stark _once_ and Bucky had not taken it well. Steve never brought up the comparison again; going through an hour and half long rant once was good enough to get the point across. Bucky treated dames with respect; his mother would have his head otherwise.

Stark's showmanship is spot on, if a little bit too showboat for Bucky's taste. Flying cars is a keen theory, but Bucky doesn't see how it would be any safer than driving with four wheels on the road. Stark just wanted to be known as the man who created the impossible, Bucky figured, and airplanes and electricity have already been invented. Now, if Stark could figure out a way for man to fly without a plane? Bucky would blow his wig and forever sing his praises.

Honestly, Bucky doesn't expect the car to get off the ground. The fact that it gets at least a foot up is surprising, so being the good sportsman Bucky likes to believe he is...

“Holy cow.” sums up the situation pretty well.

Then the repulsors are sparking and the car is crashing back to earth. Well, the world is right once more in Bucky's eyes. A few years Bucky thinks is overly generous especially with the war. Maybe in a few decades...or centuries. He looks at Steve with a laugh, knowing that the reason for his humor will be lost but Bucky doesn't really care.

He turns back to the stage, applauding alongside everyone else because Stark had still put on a good show and recovered from the embarrassment with aplomb. The day has been good so far and the night should end on an even better note with dancing.

“Hey Steve, what say we treat these girls to-”

He's gone. Steve. Is. GONE. Bucky is seriously considering putting the punk on a leash... AFTER HE KILLS THE LITTLE TWIT! _Steve's worse than Houdini's rabbit!_ Barely suppressing the growl that _desperately_ wants to escape, Bucky begins to search the surroundings. He ignores the girls clamoring for his attention beyond giving them some vague noise that he hopes means patience. The disadvantage of Steve being so short is that he is easily lost in crowds this large. Instead for instances such as this, Bucky has to think like Steve.

_THERE!_

I WANT YOU FOR THE AMERICAN ARMY

Of-fudging-course. The Expo's recruitment office. Because one rejection a day just isn't enough. Long strides eat up the distance, military training helpfully dodging the masses, though the girls are left in Bucky's metaphorical dust.

Bucky finds Steve standing before one of those reflective mirrors that shows your face in the image when you stand on the trigger. The hilarity of seeing Steve's forehead even with the uniform collar manages to dissipate most of the anger; the rest simmers like hot coals.

His anger isn't low enough to keep him from shoving Steve's shoulder to gain attention.

“C'mon man, you're kinda missin' the whole point of a double date. We're takin' the girls dancin'!”

“You go ahead. I'll catch up.”

Oh. **OHO** _ **NO**_. Bucky hasn't said anything out of respect for Steve's pride (and because of distance with the Basic Training) but now he is not going to be silent. Bucky has let this go on long enough because he thought Steve was smarter than this. Stronger than this; to keep trying over and over again with the risk of getting caught rising higher with each attempt. But Steve is above all else stubborn and strong-willed. If Steve can't find a way, no one would. That is what scares Bucky.

“You're really going to do this again?” Bucky pours every ounce of exasperation and anger into his voice. The raw power he felt in this moment deepened his accent, the harsh Brooklyn vowels pounding from his lips like artillery fire.

“Well, it's a fair. Figured I'd try my luck.”

“As who? Steve from Ohio. They'll catch you, worse they'll actually take you!” _Can't you see, Stevie!? It's not worth it; war is never worth the lives it demands. I can't lose you to this war!_ Steve isn't listening. Bucky can tell by the set of his jaw and the way Steve's summer sky eyes meet him head on.

“Look, I know you don't think I can-”

“This isn't a back ally fight! This is a war!” _The war will take and take and take take take until everything has been spent. There will be nothing left. War will take you too! Just STOP!_ Bucky is yelling, nigh on shouting, he knows he is because people are turning to stare but the politeness of the forties holds true and they continue on their way. He doesn't care. Steve needs to hear this, come hell or high-water, and Bucky is going to make sure he damn well does!

“I know this is a war.”

“Look, why are you so keen to fight?! There are so many other important jobs.” _You're my brother! My family! You don't abandon family and that's what you will be doing if you keep trying!_ He doesn't understand Steve sometimes. The kid has a death wish, with how often he goes around picking fights. What is driving Steve, besides a stupid inflated sense of –

“What do you want me to do? Collect scrap metal in my little red wagon?”

“YES!” _SAFE! SAFE! SAFER! YOU WOULD BE SAFE!_

“I'm not going to sit in an factory-”

“Why not?!There are so many factories-” _LISTEN! LISTEN TO ME!_ Bucky wouldn't be able to handle Steve stained in red. He barely tolerated red fabric on his mother, sisters, and nieces. If it was blood...

“Bucky. BUCKY! C'mon! There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That's what you don't understand. This isn't about me.”

Bucky froze. He didn't understand?! _Off with his head_ whisper echoes under the rage. Because he doesn't want to fight, Steve thinks he doesn't understand? Bucky feels...lost; adrift in this sea of anger and indignation and shock. **Betrayed.**

“Right. Cause you've got nothin' to prove.” He has been trained as a sniper, a long distance killer, able to make the impossible shot to end his enemy's life. He holds nothing back, his words the kill shot he knows will penetrate deepest. The brain _(bang),_ the jugular _(bang),_ the heart ( _bang)_ , the lungs ( _bang bang)._ No mercy. Spare nothing. Regret kills. _Your consequences, Steve, will be yours to face. I'm done._

“Hey Sarge?! Are we going dancing?”

“YES WE ARE!” Even Bucky can feel how fake his smile is, unsure how the girls don't see the false wrong he's exuding. He'll put up a strong front because he promised the girls a fun night of dancing, but his last free night is ruined now. Bucky feels old, world weary and torn apart, and he doesn't know why sometimes. Finding Steve has made things easier but times like this, when Steve's stubbornness clashes with Bucky's strong-will, his soul feels centuries older.

Steve is quiet and stands firm. The punk will never back down once he's set on his path. Bucky has always admired that tenacious spirit, always will. Once Steve gives his loyalty, its for life. Which is why Bucky turns back to face his best friend because he is angry now - _so angry he feels as if one wrong move will cause the flames within to burst from his skin and incinerate to ash ash ash everything before him-_ but he still loves Steve. Loves the punk that can make life difficult and wonderful at the same time so Bucky can't in good conscious leave for a war that has more of a chance of taking him from the living than Stark's idea of a flying car has a chance of becoming reality. Not without saying good-bye, even if this is not how he imagined this would go.

“Don't do anything stupid until I get back.” This is an absurd demand based solely on Steve's luck and personality. He believes it is a universal law that Steve will always do something incredibly stupid. Bucky merely prays that he will always be there to guard Steve's back when the idiotic choices occur. Heaven knows someone has to, might as well be Bucky.

“How can I? Taking all the stupid with you.”

Yep, Steve might look angelic but Bucky has yet to meet anyone with a smarter mouth, discluding his sister Becky.

“You're a punk.”

The hug is strong and needed, just enough pressure to Steve's fragile form to convey everything Bucky won't say. _I'm still mad at ya, Punk, but I will love ya always. My brother, my family. Stay safe._

“Jerk”

Bucky turns away, leaving Steve to his fate.

“Be careful.”

It's Steve's way of apologizing as well, without saying the words themselves. Bucky looks back to nod. He doesn't intend to die, hardly anyone does, but war as with life is unpredictable.

“Don't win the war 'till I get there.”

Now that cause Bucky to stop. Facing Steve one last time, he slowly snaps a salute. Bucky has no expectations of winning the war anytime soon nor does he expect to still be alive to see the end of it, but Steve is strangely both optimistic and pessimistic in this instance. Steve is optimistic in that he will get accepted before the war is over but pessimistic in knowing that it will likely never happen. Bucky hears this and acknowledges his friend's desire and dream. He doesn't expect Steve to get into the army either.

“C'mon girls, they're playing our song.” With his hand holding onto his dame of the night, Bucky walks both girls to the nearest dance hall. He doesn't see his skinny punk brother again.

 

 


	5. Interlude: Broken But Still Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deeper look into Emma and some thoughtful revelations concerning a certain kidnapper from the eyes of his kidnappee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**CHAPTER FOUR: INTERLUDE – BROKEN BUT RISING STILL**

 

I won't just survive  
Oh, you will see me thrive  
Can't write my story  
I'm beyond the archetype  
I won't just conform  
No matter how you shake my core  
'Cause my roots, they run deep, oh

 

Oh, ye of so little faith  
Don't doubt it, don't doubt it  
Victory is in my veins  
I know it, I know it  
And I will not negotiate  
I'll fight it, I'll fight it  
I will transform

**RISE -- KATY PERRY**

 

~MOH~

 

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF FAMILY?!”

Emma slammed the sleazeball's face into his steering wheel.

“More than you, Buddy.”

 

~MOH~

 

“Thanks for watching Davy tonight, Alice. I know it was short notice.”

“No problem, Em. Davy is a sweetheart; I don't mind watching him.”

“I know, but it is Friday and you have that test tomorrow for your black belt.”

“You sound like my mother. I'm twenty-four, Emma, not two. And you're not much older than me so I don't want to hear the riot act from you.”

“Maybe not but I had a baby a few years younger than you are now which is a whole different kettle of fish. Take my advice: enjoy these days because sometime in the future you and that man of yours are going to want one and then these blissful moments of independent freedom will be gone.”

“It must have been bad if you're waxing philosophical. You did catch the scumbag?”

“Yeah, I got him. Used the old car-boot trick.”

“Oooh, a classic.”

“It is handy, especially since no one thinks about it. Then he had to go and bring in the whole orphan issue in some lame attempt to get back at me for catching his cowardly ass.”

“Tell me he's black and blue?”

“Well, I wouldn't say he's entirely bruised but his face became very well acquainted with the steering wheel. And don't sound so eager for violence. That reaction tends to send a bad message.”

“That had to hurt....Alice approves!”

“...Shut up. Anyway, is Davy asleep?”

“He wanted to stay up and greet you when you got back but all those games and puzzles tuckered him out. I know it's not my place but have you considered having Davy tested? He's smart, almost scary smart.”

“I've considered it. I just....”

“Want him to have a normal life? Understandable. Well, if you need me, don't hesitate to call.”

“I will and thanks again.”

“No thanks necessary. And Happy Birthday.”

“Davy told you.”

“He wouldn't shut up about the cupcake you promised to share with him.”

“Well, cupcakes can wait until tomorrow, your sleep can't.”

“Alright, already. I know when I'm not wanted. G'night, Emma.”

“Night, Alice. I'll pay you once I pick up the bounty on Mr. Bail Skipper. And I still have yet to meet your man. When are you going to bring him around?”

“No rush. Soon. His tea shop is really booming so he'll be able to hire more help. You'll love him Emma, and he and Davy, well, that is gonna be something to watch.”

“Miracle or nightmare.”

“Yep.”

 

“Mmm...Mommy?”

“Hush now Davy, go back to sleep.”

“Cake...?”

“In the morning. Now is the time for little boys to dream and grow.”

“M'kay.”

“Good night, Mo réalta beag.”

“Nu-nigh.”

 

~MOH~

 

“Cupcakes can be eaten tomorrow, but there's nothing in the rules against blowing out the candle and not eating the cake.”

It's a ritual with ten years of experience behind it: pulling the vanilla confection with vanilla butter-cream frosting from the box, striking the match and lighting the blue star candle ( _Too deep a blue but close enough._ ) and gazing into the flame, searching for answers she can't even begin to reason out.

“Another banner year.” _Another year with no word, no clue, nothing that could still be causing this stupid flame of hope to continue burning. All I have is Davy and his sweet, mischievous smirk, photos of memories, and dreams that are still too real._

Emma sighs, the little flame flickering and dancing.

Wishes are for the dreamers who can't make their own path. Emma has made hers and continues to make it longer, but for the one day a year where wishes are magical, she allows herself to dream that this time will be different, this time the magic will work for her as well.

The flame dies and curls into smoke, changing nothing.

The doorbell rings.

 

~MOH~

 

_They can't keep me from Davy! They can't! I never had a sip of alcohol. Regina knows this but she's lying. Why? Because Henry found me?! That was never within my control! I don't control the kid,never even met him until yesterday._

_But now she needs my help to find him. Well, Sweetheart, Karma's a bitch and I am a pissed off mother. I would have fought you for the sake of Henry alone, but now you have tried to keep me from both my kids. If there is one thing James, Tim, Jim, Charlie, and the rest taught me:_

_It's how to_ **annihilate** _my enemies. And Honey, I'm ain't wearing kid gloves._

 

~MOH~

 

“You wanted to give me my best chance.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that's why Snow White gave you away.”

“Listen, Kid. I'm not in any book, I'm a real person and I am no savior. But you were right about one thing: I wanted to give you your best chance. At the time it wasn't with me.”

“And now?”

“It would be except getting custody of you is going to be impossible with how tightly the Mayor has this whole town wrapped around her perfectly manicured blood tipped fingers.”

“Please don't take me back there.”

“I have to, Henry. Despite every bad vibe I'm getting from her, without concrete evidence proving she is unfit to be your parent, I can't do anything. Keeping you from her would place charges of kidnapping on me and give her a reason to take Davy from me. Again.”

“Again?”

“She tried to claim me as unfit for driving under the influence. I never touched a drop of alcohol while at her house, in fact, I specifically requested water. Luckily because of the accident, Sheriff Graham was given the EMT reports which proved that I hadn't had anything to even slightly intoxicate me.”

“But..But she's evil!You can't make me go back there, please! You don't know what it's like. My life sucks!”

“NO! You wanna know what sucking is? Being abandoned on the side of the road as a baby. My parents didn't even have the common decency to leave me at a hospital. Sucking is having a family until I was three, before they gave me back when they had their own kids. I was in the foster system my entire life. That sucks. Losing the only man who...No, Henry. You're life may be a bit difficult to understand but it definitely doesn't suck. If I can give Regina anything, it's this: your mom is trying. Maybe not well and certainly not enough to keep me from looking for ways to get you away from her, but she's trying in what I can assume is the only way she knows how. So please Henry, for nothing else, go back to her and don't try running away again.”

“....Will you stay if I go back?”

“For now. Davy has school that I need to work out details on and I have my boss to inform of my absence. I can't just pack everything into a box and immediately move in. In a less than perfect world, I would be alone and able to do that. But as it is, I have Davy and now I have you, in an odd way that I never allowed myself to wish for, and that means I have to be responsible. It will take me a little bit to work everything out but I promise Henry, I will come back. I want you and Davy to get to know each other.”

“Okay....Do we have the same father?”

“What?”

“D..David and me. Do we have the same dad?”

“....No.”

“Can you-”

“Not this time, Kid. Later, I promise. C'mon, let's get going before Regina calls out the National Guard.”

 

~MOH~

 

“Thank you so much for watching Davy while I got everything sorted back in Boston, Mary-Margaret.”

“Oh, it was no trouble, Emma. He's an absolute sweetheart. He must get it from you.”

“Haha no, that is all his father's charm. Davy is a right terror when cranky, or feeling particularly hostile. That's when he gets clever, which is also his father with a general splash of his uncles.”

“I don't know, Emma. You seem to be on a rampage against Mayor Mills. I personally really enjoyed the touch with the apple tree.”

“What can I say, that woman pisses me off. And I've always been more of an orange kinda gal.”

 

~MOH~

 

Emma's heart plummeted alongside the mineshaft elevator, every nerve locked and icy cold with surging adrenalin.

“ARCHIE!”

“I..I'm alright, Emma. David, uh, young David has got quite the grip on him.”

Sure enough, on the other side of Henry, practically hanging upside down, small David had a vice grip on Archie's umbrella handle. Slowly, hand over hand, the seven year old dragged the older man up by his umbrella until childish fingers could grip one large wrist.

“Don'cha worry, Mr. Cricket! I've got ya! Mommy won't let us fall and I won't let you fall so there's no falling today. 'Sides Fall isn't until after Summer and that's _forever_ away!”

Dear God _ABOVE!_ Emma loved her baby boy.

Both adults dissolved into relieved chuckles as their bodies worked through the left over adrenalin. Keeping one hand locked around Henry, Emma hooked the other through David's pant belt loop while Archie used his free hand to grab onto the harness. Everyone secured enough, Emma got the rescuer's attention to begin pulling them back up.

With how her face was threatening to split from how big her smile was, Emma was fairly certain she looked insane to everyone else. She didn't care. Both her boys were safe, the kind therapist was alive and somewhat in awe of her youngest, and Emma had a job that would ensure some restrictions on Regina.

That did not stop her from clutching both boys to her chest, only loosening the viper grip when they began to protest.

“You are both in so much trouble, there isn't going to be enough hours in a day to properly explain just how long you're in trouble for. Do either of you have _**any**_ idea how dangerously close you came to killing not only yourselves but Mr. Hopper as well?!”

“Step away from **my** son, Ms. Swan. I am his mother and I will be the one to discuss his punishments, not the woman who gave up all rights to him. Legally, need I remind you?”

Emma rose to her feet, graceful and panther smooth, just as James had taught her all those years ago, and squared off with the one woman Emma would gladly label her arch-nemesis if her life was a comic.

“You may be his adopted mother and I may be his biological mother, but at this moment I am speaking to Henry Mills as the Deputy Sheriff, because his stunt not only endangered his own life but that of a boy younger than himself and an adult citizen. I am doing my job, **Mayor** Mills, and a part of that job means expressing with due severity, that every action has a consequence and this time? The consequences could have been deadly. So you **will** step back and let me do my job for five damn minutes or I will be arresting you for obstruction. Am I clear?”

Regina's face made it perfectly clear that she was going to make Emma pay for the audacity, but Emma couldn't find it within her to care. Her boys had almost died because Henry was so hooked on some fairy tale story he had to prove himself. Emma had no doubt that part of Henry's attitude came from how Regina raised him, but the rest was definitely something Emma or Neal would have done. That kind of attitude and thinking could not continue. If Henry wanted Emma and Davy to stay, he couldn't go and pull stunts like this just to prove a fantasy. She wasn't going to risk the lives of either of her sons.

Crouching down once more, she locked eyes with two sets of brown eyes, one set a bright hazel she remembered being so distinctive in Neal while the other was a dark rich chocolate she had no idea which side of his family he got them from. Emma waited a beat, letting both boys take in how serious the situation was from her own green eyes. Only when they began to shuffle awkwardly under the weight of her stare did she continue.

“Henry Mills, do you realize exactly what the consequence of this little adventure could have been?”

“Y..yes.”

“What would it have been?”

“Davy and Dr. Hopper and me could have died, but Emma I had to go in there! Something is down--”

“No, Henry. You didn't **NEED** to go into the old mine, you **WANTED** to in order to satisfy some desire of yours. That desire almost got multiple people killed, including yourself. Do you not understand?”

“BUT EMMA--!”

“No buts, Mr. Mills.”

The betrayed look in Henry's eyes was killing Emma inside, however, she had seven years of experience with little boy manipulation. She was stronger than puppy eyes...

Well, brown eyed puppies anyway. Blue eyed ones always got her.

“Now, your mother is worried and has probably had ample enough time to consider an appropriate punishment for your little adventure.”

“Oh, more than enough time....Deputy Swan. You'll be lucky to see the outside of the house when you're thirty, young man.”

_Ah, Regina. There's always a new facial expression to learn. That one said fresh-dung-disgust with a nice side of ripe sour lemon slices topped with a garnish of rat poison._

“One more minute, Mayor Mills.”

Henry wouldn't meet Emma's eyes and she really couldn't blame him. She would feel betrayed too in his shoes. But if the years have taught Emma anything it is that life isn't fair and every choice has a consequence that you have to live with. Henry is young and learning, yet Emma can see he has put her on some kind of pedestal. His expectations of her being a “fun” and “little discipline absentee mother trying to get into her estranged son's graces” was not going to fly. Maybe in another universe she might have been too afraid of pushing Henry away to discipline him at first, but again, Emma has spent the last seven years raising a little boy and three years before that nursing back to health a good man.

_Could definitely add Dean to the list of children I've taken care of in the past. He is the very definition of man-child. Love him anyway, the brat. Sam too, but Dean...He and James would have gotten on like a house on fire or a bookworm in a library or, like, a hundred other things. Milk and pie? Eh, back on track, Em. Still got one child and one therapist to talk too. Contemplate the similarities between surrogate brother and MIA baby daddy later._

“Henry, you are just as important to me as David and just the thought of losing either of you...There aren't enough words. I was terrified I would lose you. Please, don't EVER do anything like that again. Promise me.”

She watched Henry, saw his eyes searching her and the gears turning in his head. Both her boys were brilliant, bright children and she was so proud of them.

“Okay...”

“Good.” Emma couldn't resist hugging her ten year old close, ignoring the flame wrapped daggers Regina was obviously sending her way.

“If you are quite done, Miss Swan, I'd appreciate you cease molesting **MY** son and get back to your job, like, oh I don't know, crowd control.”

_Do not kill aggravating woman. Do not kill aggravating woman._

“But of course, Madam Mayor.” Okay, so maybe the mock curtsey was a little overboard but the look on Regina's face made the act worth it. Emma waved a frantic Ruby over, effectively dismissing Regina, before turning to her silent youngest.

“Davy, I have to go do my job, but we will be talking. You haven't gotten away with anything, young man. You scared not only me but Miss Ruby and her grandmother. I know I taught you better than that.”

“I know, Mommy, and I'm really, really sorry! I just wanted to help.” Large tears began to fall from those mystery chocolate eyes Emma loved so much, even if she sometimes missed the baby blues Davy had had as a newborn that were so much like his father's own ice. Emma crouched once more, picking up the crunch of high heels that herald Ruby's appearance but kept her attention on her youngest. The hot flush on his chubby cheeks, the rapidly glazing eyes, the sickly yellow green snot finally leaking from the button nose Emma loved to bop because it would always make him giggle. Davy was in Emma's arms before anyone could have seen her move. They would still talk, but right now her baby was too sick to handle a lecture with any coherency.

“Oh, Baby. Too much excitement when you're already not feeling well.” Emma cradled Davy close, one hand carding through coffee brown locks and ignoring the sticky mucous smearing against the strap of her tank top and the skin of her neck with seven years of practice. Fever heat radiates and she hates the fact that she has to hand him over to Ruby, but she does have to do her job if she wants to keep Regina off her back. “Okay, I'm going to give you to Ruby and she'll take you home. I'll be there soon as I can, Sweetheart.” A sleepy, mumbled protest was all Davy could give and while Ruby made a token grimace at the sickly state of her tiny charge, she still cradled Davy just as close as Emma had.

“I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“I am so sorry for losing him the first time, Emma.”

“Not your fault. I should have warned you how slippery Davy can be when he wants. Davy, my little Star, Ruby's taking you home now. Take whatever medicine she gives you and get some sleep.” He barely stirred from the exhausted slumber he had slipped into, breathes puffing from open lips. Emma wanted nothing more than to take her child from the kind if promiscuous waitress and go home with him herself.

Hours later, Emma curled around a pillow, muffling the sobs wracking her body with the fluff and closed bathroom door. Davy's words from minutes before circling like a vicious buzzard in her head.

“ _I jus' wanted Henry to like me, Mommy. I'm sorry for runnin' away. Jus' wanted Henry to like me.”_

_James, where are you?! I need you here! I don't know what to do anymore! Davy, Henry, me...James! **James!**_

Emma didn't emerge from the bathroom until much later only to crawl into the bed holding her sickly son and curl around him, drinking in the sweet fragrance unique to Davy. It helped some, but it wasn't the scent she truly longed to be once more wrapped in, that of August leaves, gunpowder, leather, and a wild spicy tang she had no comparison for except that it was distinctly him. Davy is chocolate and oranges and summer cut grass mixed with that fresh little boy fragrance that all boys had until puberty. There were times though when Davy carried the same wild tang as his father. Now wasn't one of them, but she had enough memories to draw on into her dreams, where James watched proudly at her side as Henry and Davy played together under the sun.

 

~MOH~

 

It had taken longer than Emma would have initially hoped for, but watching Henry and Davy try to get the most amount of cinnamon sprinkled whipped cream on the other was worth every moment of frosty hostility. Now all that is left is to somehow convince Henry that she isn't some fairy tale character destined to be a Savior. She can't quite deny the existence of magic (look at Davy's father and grand-uncles or any history book dedicated to one of the boy's namesakes. Science may not be magic but it sure came as close as in Emma's line of thinking. There was also the Cube Tim had told her about, months after....well, if that wasn't even closer to Henry's magic, Emma will willingly eat one of Regina's apples.) but she can, will, and has continued to deny that she is anything other than a normal (ish) mother.

Oh, and get Henry away from Regina. That is very important. Maybe she could get Mr. Gold to help on that front?

Yeah, Mr. Gold willingly and without strings helping is about as likely as Regina finding the shriveled pebble that is her heart.

She could always try calling Falsworth...

Yeah...that could work....

Mary-Margaret looked up as she passed the kitchen and froze. An icy tendril of fear crawled down the mousy school teacher's spine and she scurried from the room as quickly as subtlety allowed when the cackle grew. Whoever that truly evil smirk gracing Emma's face was for, she almost pitied them.

However, since she had a pretty good idea, Mary-Margaret doesn't pity the Mayor. Instead she plans contingencies for hiding when Emma and Regina finally have their Mexican stand-off. It's bound to be explosive.

 

~MOH~

 

“How the hell did I let you guys talk me into this?!” Emma had to shout to be heard over the reverberating bass blasting from the speakers of the Rabbit Hole. She finally had a free night from patrolling Storybrooke but instead of spending quality time with Davy, she lost her marbles and agreed to a Girls Night with Ruby, Mary-Margaret, and Ashley. Emma felt under-dressed (especially when compared to the always stylish if a bit promiscuous Ruby) in a white tank top, faded blue slim jeans, her comfy brown boots, and a blue plaid button down shirt several sizes too large. Ruby had commented on the obvious ill-fitting over shirt but a single glare from cold green eyes killed the stubborn persistence the waitress had been prepared to utilize.

“Because you love us and I've heard you singing in the shower. You can't deny the shower voice, Emma!”

“M's right, Emma. You gotta let those shower worthy vocals soar! Grace us all with the angel vocals Mary-Margaret swears are there. Don't make her a liar now!”

“You are drunk Ruby, and very lucky I'm off duty.” There was no real bite to Emma's words and really, it had been some time since she had done karaoke...ah, what the hell. _When in Rome_. Downing the rest of her beer in one go, Emma stood and prepared to make her selection. “Fine, but after I'm done, you lot are so taking a turn up there. AH! No arguments.”

Emma was turning to head over the sign up list when she saw Regina enter the door. As always, the ever present freshly sucked lemon look pinches the crimson lips of Emma's biggest pain in the ass to date. She can say this though. Regina has an...inspiring presence.

Ruby, Ashley and Mary-Margaret collectively shivered at the evil smirk on their favorite blonde sheriff's face.

“She's scary.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth, Ash.”

As Kellie Pickler's Tough pounded out of the speakers, Emma let the song sweep her away. This was _her_ song, her life, sass and sweetness and an iron core that took shit from no man or woman. This song was her soul bared for the room to see. The soul with teeth and a steel spine that wouldn't bow down to a high-n-mighty mayor with control issues. She let them all see, let them all understand. Emma Swan was here to stay until **she** decided to leave.

The stage was her playground and Emma used every inch, swinging her hips to the beat and gracing the whistling crowd with saucy smirks and mischievous eyes. It was no surprise then with everyone's eyes on the uncharacteristically vivacious blonde, that she didn't notice a single set of glacier blue eyes tracking her with a hunter's intensity. A manic grin tugged at sculpted lips, the soft sound of ice settling in a glass of gin and tonic at odds with the thumping beat of the music.

“Soon, Miss Swan. We'll get what we both want very soon.”

As Emma's song wound down, the owner of the blue eyes finished his drink and made his way to the bar.

“Another round of drinks for the lady singer and her friends on me.” Laying down enough cash to cover the group of four's drink orders, the man cast one last appraising look at the grinning sheriff before leaving, only acknowledging the brief meeting of ice and spring grass with a slight nod and another wicked smirk.

Emma blinked, heart hammering from exertion and shock. _That...there..._ _ **what?!**_ The moment had been too brief, the distance too far, the light pollution in the room too much to get a clear image, but if Emma was sure of anything, she would always be sure of **him** and that man resembled James too closely to be more than a coincidence.

Finding out that he had also payed for the next round of drinks raised Emma's suspicions further, but by the time the night ended the mystery of a blue eyed man was forgotten.

 

~MOH~

 

The air is too quiet, too still, for all that the hospital machines are constantly sounding alerts. Inside, Emma is a maelstrom of emotions though nothing but her eyes give it away. Henry is dying. Her sweet, forgiving baby boy is lying in the hospital bed and there is nothing Emma can do. There are no bail jumpers to find, no small town crisis to avert, no shadowy organization from World War Two to burn to the ground. Emma is helpless and hopeless and furious.

It's Henry lying there but it could have been Davy. Would have been Davy if Henry hadn't snatched Regina's stupid pastry from the seven year old's indignant hands and bitten in, just to prove to Emma everything the ten year old believed. Everything August had tried to force her to see. Everything Ja.... _Jefferson_ had tried to reason her into believing.

Now Henry was dying and it was Emma's fault.

Everything always seemed to be Emma's fault in one way or another. Jolene, James, Dean and Sam, Neal, everyone that Emma seemed to care a fig about wound up hurt or killed.

Why didn't she believe _him_?

Why?!

**WHY?!**

She tried to make it right, tried to believe and fought a damn **DRAGON** under the town library just on the hope that some True Love based potion could cure her eldest. Emma should never have trusted the blasted pawn broker. The only consolation is that Regina had been screwed over as well and Emma was going to do it again, if Henry lived. Regina had overplayed her hand and now Emma had enough proof to take back custody of her son. Madame Mayor would be lucky to get visitation rights. Emma doesn't feel like Regina's luck will hold.

Then again...

Emma's not feeling much anymore as Doctor Whale calls the time of death.

 

~MOH~

 

“ _Hey Kid. I take it you've seen the paper.”_

“ _Yeah. But don't worry, Operation Cobra is still on.”_

“ _.....Henry, you asked once about your father and Davy's. Do you remember that?”_

“ _Uh-huh, but you said you didn't want to talk. Does the fact that you spent time in jail have something to do with my dad?”_

“ _It does. Henry, I didn't have the greatest of childhoods. Multiple foster homes and orphanages. Nothing pretty or worthy of fairytale. I met your father after I ran from the latest home. I had just turned seventeen. He was...charming and understanding. Had a lot of the same home issues I did. We became a regular Bonnie and Clyde. Then, one day he was really nervous. Short story, he was being searched for about a heist he made before meeting me. I managed to convince him to let me collect the watches so we could hawk them and settle someplace far away. He sold me out. Gave an anonymous call to the police; they arrested me and I wound up in jail. Found out I was pregnant while there and ended up giving birth handcuffed to a hospital bed. All he left me was the keys to the bug and you.”_

“ _...That's why you couldn't keep me? Because you were in jail.”_

“ _Yes. Henry, I would have kept you in a heartbeat if I had any other option. But because of your dad and those circumstances, there was no way I could have raised you.”_

“ _What about Davy? What was his dad like?”_

“ _James...James is everything your father isn't. He saved my life once when I was eight. I would have been killed if he hadn't been on that road that night. I didn't have a name for him so I called him Siniy Soyka – Blue bird. He brought a small measure of happiness in one of the darkest times in my life. I didn't see him again until a year after I got out of prison. That time I kind of rescued him. Henry, James was in a bad way and I can't explain everything about his back story to you now, but I do want you to know that he would have loved you so much.”_

“ _Why isn't he with you and Davy?”_

“ _Not because he didn't want to. As near as I or any of the others could tell, he was forcibly taken. I've been searching for him ever since, but at the time I was too close to my due date with Davy to hit the streets like I would with a bail-bond jumper.”_

“ _Maybe I can help! We could call it, um, Operation...Raccoon.”_

“ _R...raccoon?....RACCOON?! HA HAHA HA”_

“ _What's so funny?!”_

“ _Oh, Kid, I'm sorry, you just have no idea how appropriate that is. Okay, Operation Raccoon is a go. Now how about we make some plans for Operation Cobra since that is a bit more attainable.”_

 

~MOH~

 

Emma is going to kill Rumpelstiltskin, slowly and with a gratuitous amount of satisfaction. Regina is just going to have to wait her turn. When it comes to her family being harmed, _Emma. Doesn't._ _ **Share.**_

 

~MOH~

 

Emma considered herself a fit woman. She worked out in the gym four days a week, work schedule allowing; she ate healthy....okay, healthy enough that she got most of the food groups in each meal when she could cook (stake-outs were a given deviation from eating healthy), and she had daily check-ups with her doctor. Emma was healthy and fit. That is not even getting into the six months she has lived in Storybrooke. The madness contained in that little town was worth two years at the gym.

All this to say...

Storybrooke had nothing on the Beanstalk.

Only a third of the way up and her shoulders shake from the strain, her fingers scream in pulsating waves as she grabs, let's go, reaches, grabs again. Repeat. Painful, excruciating, repeat. Emma is ninety-five percent positive the enchanted bracer is the only reason she is still _valiantly_ climbing. Magic. The best safety harness available to _Medieval Times_ land.

Emma will say this though: she finally has the time to think about all that has happened. She will reiterate that Storybrooke is better than any gym at keeping the pesky pounds off and also keeping Emma constantly on the move. There hasn't been any time for her to sit down and simply absorb. Magic is real. Her parents are alive, her age, and fairytale _royalty_. Her eldest son was adopted by who is essentially Emma's _grandmother!_ Not to mention, Emma was prophesied to break a curse with True Love; which she did at the cost of almost losing Henry. It's like she has been planted into a _Princess Diaries_ movie plot, sprinkled with a liberal dose of _Anastasia_ lost princess vibes and _Harry Potter_ magic mayhem.

If she starts singing 'Journey to the Past', someone needs to shoot her. Or lock her up in the Asylum that Storybrooke most certainly does not have hidden in Storybrooke General Hospital's basement. On second thought, no, don't lock her up; Emma really doesn't want to contemplate who her roommate could be in that scenario.

She is studiously ignoring the flash of ice eyes filled with madness and pain and hopeless desperation and _understanding_.

So. Magic is real. For the townsfolk of Storybrooke, its presence in their lives had been as mundane as a toaster or cell phone was for her. Emma couldn't fathom relying on potions or spells, living alongside pixies and trolls; yet, the evidence is constantly smacking her in the face. Emma spat out the leaf blown into her mouth, trying to quell the twitch developing above her eye. She was never going to look at beans the same. Hell, she's seriously considering cutting beans from her diet entirely.

 _Focus, Emma!_ The world she had once believed as the only reality would do anything to get this magic. The literature on magic and fantasy alone filled whole stores. To realize that magic is a part of her history...

“ _A real world. How arrogant are you to think yours is the only one? There are infinite more. Some have magic, some don't, and some need magic. That's where you come in.”_

Emma shook the familiar voice from her head. No, she won't think about the one person who had been completely honest with her from the beginning (not counting Henry or when _he_ lured her into his home). _She can't think about him!_ Emma will not think about the lonely man living in the house that could have moonlighted as a hotel, separated from the world and his daughter. The way he smelled of Earl Grey, warm satin-silk, and oddly enough, an autumn forest when he leaned over her shoulder that insanity driven night. How his voice whispered across her skin and rumbled in her ears like crushed velvet rubbed wrong. How everything he _was_ cried in echoed familiarity, similar and yet different. No, Emma Swan is an independent, strong woman who can quite easily ignore the mad man she had only known for one night. He had drugged her. Kidnapped Mary-Margaret and held them both hostage. _He had been trapped and kept from his daughter by Regina. He had been_ _ **trapped**_ _. That was the worst part._

“ _Everyone wants some magical solution for their problem and yet everyone refuses to believe in magic.”_

Crap.

Even in another dimension, Jefferson was giving her trouble. Thinking of trouble, Regina has been Emma's largest thorn. From the get go, the Mayor rubbed all of Emma's nerves wrong. Like rubbed with sandpaper and rinsed with bleach wrong. Regina being the Evil Queen makes so much sense now. Everywhere Emma had turned, Regina Mills was right there, hovering over her shoulder and making Emma's life a living nightmare. Seriously, Regina could be the poster model for Helicopter Mother Daily, if that was a thing. Regina would probably run it either way, as she seems to run all things in Storybrooke.

So yes, Emma does not trust Regina, not with her tax dollars and certainly not with Henry, however not even that odious woman deserved the creature Mr. Gold sent after her. (The creature would be too swift a punishment. The vindictive voice in Emma roars for Regina to suffer, long and hard until she's begging for death, because only then would Regina have learned not to harm those Emma loves. When the woman's cherished pride is nothing but tatters and strings no bigger than a hair, then Emma would be satisfied. A fitting punishment for a prideful creature; to beg for death and receive mercy. If the voice was a rumble of guttural Russian, soft and promising, Emma only allows a brief smile to indicate her feelings.) No, not Mr. Gold, _Rumpelstiltskin_ and wasn't that just a kick, finding out the old pawn shop owner is actually a baby snatching, gold spinning imp. Also, there is the fact that Regina raised Henry when Emma had been too cowardly and incapable herself. Points to her despite the kid's numerous psychological issues given in the process. Henry would be devastated to lose his other mother. Yet as always when there was any crisis involving the mayor, Emma paid the consequences. Sure, Regina lived, but now Emma is separated from Henry (again!) and only David stands between the former queen and the young boy Emma has come to love so dearly.

“ _Her name is Grace. Here it's Paige, but she is really Grace. My Grace.”_

_Please, if anyone is listening, don't keep me from my sons. Don't trap me away from them. Not now that we've finally reached each other._

Regina has ruined so many lives, yet Emma is realizing that some may have more bones to gnaw than others. While she would never admit this out loud and certainly not in the presence of Mary-Margaret (because despite how sweet and forgiving that woman was, once the line had been crossed she held on to a grudge with all the tenacity of a raccoon grasping a shiny object), Jefferson's curse was by far the worst given. Yes, everyone lost their memories and were snatched from their happy endings, from their loved ones, but at least they could move around and interact with others. Emma wondered what Jefferson had done to Regina to warrant such a punishment. Henry's book hadn't been all that clear from the quick skim Emma had found the time to give the story.

Even before the curse, Regina had screwed him over; taking from him the only person he had left to love: his young daughter. Sure, he had made a lot of bad decisions with his life, but Emma had as well. They had both been thieves, both had loved ones snatched from them, and both had been betrayed and left to rot imprisoned. Despite all that Jefferson had done to Emma in Storybrooke, she understood that they had a lot in common and that meant Emma understood the Mad Hatter and his motives. She couldn't condemn him for his actions because then she would have to condemn herself or forever be a hypocrite.

Even without the realization of how similar Emma's story is to Jefferson's, watching Regina pull out a leather case with the single most interesting shape Emma had seen to date back in the monochrome yet still, annoyingly enough, tasteful (and Emma is taking that thought _to the grave_ ) office hammered into Emma just how deep Regina's claws dug. Crystal ice eyes sparking with _madnessdesperation_ _understanding_ above a natural devilish smirk lingered in Emma's mind that day. Jefferson had been right, had told her point-blank that magic was real, that the curse Henry believed so fervently in was truth and inexplicably connected to Emma. Seeing the events unfold in the not-so-normal small town just as the mad man in the mansion had described, brought a feeling Emma was unfortunately intimately familiar with: guilt. Even now, climbing a giant beanstalk, Emma secretly wished (just as she always had) that she could go back to that night. Could go back and tell the lonely mad man that she believed him, that she would do everything in her power to reunite him with his daughter because, _dammit all,_ he was right!

The case had been old and battered, had seen more years than Emma wished to dwell on, and added world-weary broad shoulders clothed in printed silk to the eyes and lips and hair and forehead in her mind. Shaped like a flower pot, Regina had flipped open the lid with a gentleness becoming of the aging leather hinges that groaned and creaked like old bones anyway and stopped. Emma remembers how Regina's dark eyes sought Emma's own viridian, the orbs black as wet soil leery and questioning.

There was a type of movement about Regina in that moment that strongly reminded Emma of a pet dog at one of the foster families she had lived with; he was beaten down almost as often as the children, broken in a way Emma still occasionally feared would happen to her, and always cowered in a corner while snapping sharp fangs at anyone foolish enough to approach outside his terms.

“Did Henry really ask you to protect me?” her question was asked with a softness that Emma would never associate with the mayor, having only ever known Regina to be a hard woman with a diamond will.

Emma remembered debating her answer. Regina truly gets on her nerves and that is not counting the anger Emma has in regards to the woman's treatment of Henry, still though....

Regina had been Henry's mother for ten years. Unfortunately.

Damn.

“Yes” was said with all the conviction of a woman not wanting to speak but knowing that staying silent would get things nowhere, so she is going to put every single drop of belief and truth into as few words as possible. In the end, Emma continues to take heart in being able to stun Regina since opportunities such as that are few and far between. The genuine smile had looked painful, as if Regina was unused to smiling with true happiness (Emma's ninety-eight percent sure of this fact). Emma recognized that look, sees it in the mirror and every reflective surface she passes during her day. The latest revelation had gone into the steel bunker with all the other new facts and truths Emma just didn't have the time or _will_ to deal with in that moment.

When the moment passed, Regina pulled an equally old, battered top hat from the depths of the case. Emma remembered how she held it with a wary reverence, hands clasping strong and sure around the trunk like she would have the reins of a high strung stallion, knowing that a steady hand is needed in checking the great power beneath her. Regina eyed the hat with a strange mixture of disgust and fascination, like a teenager presented with a hated dish from childhood yet now the smell is tantalizing and the idea of eating not so stomach turning. Then Emma had registered the hat itself, the familiar top hat shape and pattern of fabric faded in places from a pure silk black to dusky charcoal grey. A dust rose ribbon, aged in a way that Emma almost can't believe is from years passing and not a rather lack of, well...magic. Much like its true owner and if Emma hadn't been in such shock seeing the original of the hat she had spent practically an entire night recreating under the directions of a not-so-mad mad man, she would be furious all over again because it was simply more proof against Regina.

Emma still didn't want to search in depth about why she had been hit with a sudden desire to snatch the hat from Regina's hands and run back to Jefferson, to give him back the second missing piece of his soul. She will admit that part of the reason, no matter how much she wished (and still does) she could, Emma can't give him back his daughter. Not yet at any rate, and not at all if she remains trapped in the Enchanted Forest. There is no denying now that the little girl he had watched (possibly obsessively) for twenty-eight years is his daughter, his Grace. Henry's book had confirmed Jefferson's story (and she wasn't denying the irony of the Mad Hatter being the only one to tell her the truth besides a ten year old and an old storybook), but Emma freely admits to being a skeptic by experienced necessity and, regrettably at times, it takes a lot to make her believe something as unbelievable as a fairytale cursed town. A flesh and blood dragon certainly helped obliterate her disbelief.

Emma had been unable to take her eyes away from Jefferson's possession; the whispered awe and disbelief flying free on two words. Pricks of remembered pain flared in her fingertips. The soft slick feel of the silk ribbon, the rougher scratch of patterned velvet, the stiff wire framing that she had molded her hat around danced as a phantom sense against her hands. She couldn't look at Regina, does not wish to think of the implications regarding Jefferson's “Magic Hat” in her scheming hands.

What has Regina done with that hat?

What would she do with it in the future?

Worst still....

Why is it in Regina's hands in the first place?

So many questions, not enough Beanstalk to suss out some answers. Too many revelations and not enough whiskey in the world to even come close to understanding or accepting a fourth of them. Glancing at the smug pirate scaling beside her, Emma adds not enough rum to the list. Right now, Emma can't really handle the thought of her parents being alive and wanting her, giving her up only so that she could escape a curse to rescue all those involved. Once she had a moment to breathe and not worry about Henry and Davy however, she would be _discussing_ that little tidbit in depth with David and Mary-Margaret because seriously, who sends a minutes old baby through a magic wardrobe on the word of leather clad, scaly skinned evil sorcerer that she would come back for them?! The logic was so flawed in that, it makes swiss cheese jealous. It's a damn miracle to begin with that Pinocchio went through with her (Marco is also getting a stern lecture about trusting a _seven-year old_ former puppet to take care of a fifteen minute old _newborn_ ) because otherwise...well, Emma wouldn't be climbing this stupid beanstalk. Emma would be a dead, rotted baby corpse in a hollow tree in the forests of Maine waiting to be discovered by some poor innocent hiker.

In essence, the fact that magic is real and that all the fairytales she had spottily grown up on were wrong, that she was part of one of the most famous, is about all she can handle right now. Even that much is barely hanging by a thread. Maybe not willingly, but Emma has accepted magic, has accepted that fairy tales are real, and that is all she can handle accepting as truth until she is with Henry again. Mary-Margaret will have to get used to the idea that mother-daughter bonding is not in the cards.

“First beanstalk?”

One other thing Emma is struggling to accept: Captain Killian “Hook” Jones. The most famous of pirates with bright blue eyes too green to ever be the right shade of ice that darkens to glossy gunmetal when charged high on emotions. Roguishly tousled hair too dark a black when it should be artfully curling chocolate-brown over a forehead made just for brooding framing mesmerizing ice eyes. Everything about Hook is close but not enough. Sure, he's handsome in that bad boy kind of way and there is no denying the sex appeal of his accent (appeal that he is _extremely_ aware of), all of which together means that normally Emma would have readily agreed to a quick toss about. Six months ago, she would have had she met Killian Jones on the streets (or bars) of Boston. However, six months ago her life hadn't gone to fairytale Hell in a cursed hand-basket swinging off the arm of a ten year old that looked to much like his father to be comfortable. Six months ago she didn't have ice eyes and madness and autumn forest and heat dancing in her dreams. A little girl with caramel hair and honey eyes crying for her Papa alongside a little boy with a believing heart stronger than any magic curse weren't whispering in Emma's ears to hurry hurry hurry. Now she does have something to venture towards and Hook's advances are little more than an irritation to be endured.

“You never forget your first.”

 _No, you really don't._ The sound of glass shattering around a body echoes in her soul.

“ _Off with his head.”_

 

~MOH~

 

Emma should be awarded a sainthood. No, really, she should! If it's not whining Aurora complaining about how pointless this whole journey is or Mulan with her constant suspicions (okay, Emma will give the warrior woman some slack. Emma would be just as doubtful of newcomers claiming a curse is broken.), it's Mary-Margaret's relentless mother-daughter bonding and hope speeches or Hook's endless advances and insinuations. All Emma needs now is Regina's condescending snark and helicopter mother tactics to round out the set.

_Well, at least Aurora is good for something other than complaining about how we should be content living in solitude._

Really, Princess Rip Van Winkle should be ecstatic that Emma hasn't punched her in her flawless pouting mouth. _Yet_. There is still time to rearrange the spoilt woman-child's face because Emma still isn't home in Storybrooke, which means she is still here in Nowhere, Fairy Forest with Mulan Never-Smiles and Briar Thorn-in-Emma's-backside and not holding Henry in her arms. If Emma hears one more word or complaint about what the group should and should not be doing, she's going to thrust the pointy end of her sword into some annoying chests. Damn the consequences and hang royal political relations!

Seriously, the only help Aurora has provided is that she can talk to Henry. Emma is no fool in thinking that Henry would be able to continue talking through Aurora indefinitely. David wouldn't allow it and neither would Regina, which means Emma's chances are few to get some messages to her clever son. Pulling the princess aside isn't a cake walk, not with guard dog Mulan and nosy Mary-Margaret, but Emma has will-power to spare. She can't do anything personally to fix the wrongs in Storybrooke from here, but there is one person she can help....if he can be found, that is. She's not worried though. There is an Ace up Emma's sleeve and if he could find her in Boston, he should have no trouble finding a man in Storybrooke.

Now it will be up to Henry to re-unite a lost father with his daughter.

It's the least she can do after hitting him over the head with a telescope. The score won't be settled completely (kidnapping _and_ drugging, she needn't say more), but it would be a step in the right direction.

Emma ignores the voice that sounds suspiciously like Mary-Margaret saying she shouldn't trust a mad man with Henry. She's not, Emma is trusting a frantic _father_ with Henry. A mad man wouldn't go the lengths Jefferson did for such a stupid reason as returning to another world. But a mad _good_ father would tear entire universes apart to protect and return to his child. Emma would know the difference. Because she has lived her whole life with bad fathers and bad mothers. Emma considers herself a bad mother most days, however, there is absolutely _nothing_ she wouldn't do if Henry were ever in danger.

Jefferson understood that and he tore himself apart to reach Grace.

Now Emma is tearing the Enchanted Forest to splinters to reach Henry. If she goes Mad doing so?

So be it.

At least she'll be in good company.

 

~MOH~

 

The whole point of asking Aurora to pass Emma's request to Henry was to _avoid_ Mary-Margaret's involvement. Now, the spoilt princess had managed to get herself kidnapped (Shouldn't there be self-defense classes given to princesses so situations like this didn't happen, period? Ever? Oh, but wait, that would _totally_ cut into the whole Macho-Prince-Knight-in-Shining-Armor shtick this medieval back water realm was built on. Amen for  Women's Rights!). Which meant that Snow White was their only means of communications with Storybrooke.

_Damn._

 

~MOH~

 

The magic bean in Hook's flesh hand swings mockingly out of Emma's grasp.

“This is a symbol. Of something that was once magical, full of hope, possibility. Now look at it. Dried up, dead, useless. Much like you.”

Emma has had years of abusive and/or neglectful foster parents building up her walls against knife words. She's lived through the outer reaches of Hell and came out stronger, wiser. She is no wilting flower that shrivels up at the first scathing remark from an attractive man, or anyone for that matter. Her shields have been up since the moment she woke up in this nightmare land, her blood armor strong and true is mantled across her shoulders. Nothing can touch her. Nothing can affect her.

So why do his words _pierce_?

 _Ice eyes blown wide in shock (_ betrayal! The fragile hummingbird of hope snatched from the winter blue sky with barely a chance to get off the ground. _) before the head whips around under the force of the brass telescope and the body flies to the ground. The sound of metal against bone is sickening, a muted fleshy gunshot crack that catapulted memories of a soaked night, clouded ally, and bloody glass._

 _The Madness that flared and raged into a forest inferno, fueled by anger and the last straw of betrayal the man could not take. Emma couldn't breathe yet still that unique scent of his worms along her senses; the pain of his calloused hands_ (such long fingers with tips scarred and rough and achingly warm. How can a man be so warm with eyes that cold?) _around her throat; the snarl she could practically hear a scream containing; then sweet oxygen is flooding her system and Mary-Margaret is forcing him back and out and Emma can't get to the window in time –_

Emma's only consolation is the fact that there had been no body underneath that top floor window. Just the hat she had poured sweat and blood into laying innocently among a halo of shattered glass.

Why does it feel like Emma was now trapped in Jefferson's curse?

 

~MOH~

 

Why is it that every man Emma has ever had any romantic notions about, she ends up clocking over the head with a blunt object? Though, now that she thinks about it, Neal managed to get away without bodily trauma. What does that say about her chances and tastes in men? Emma will give the enchanted compass props though; it is a hardy little object to withstand a direct blow with Hook's hard head.

 

~MOH~

Cora.

**Cora.**

_**CORA**_.

She explains _everything_ about Regina, all of the Evil Queen's messed up reactions and idiotic actions from beginning to end. Emma is somewhat sorry she ever believed that Regina was the worst creature the Enchanted Forest could throw at her (not including the actual creatures like ogres. Ogres are a whole other level. _Shrek lied!_ ) because Regina's mother...

Is the Devil himself.

Though...Regina...

Is a very close second in Emma's head. Regina's only redeeming quality that Emma has found so far is the care she has for Henry. Despite how she goes about it, Regina Mills does care for Henry, maybe not love because Emma isn't sure even Regina knows what that feeling is even if it reached out and bit her in her black heart. Emma hasn't been given many reasons or chances to trust Regina. She doubts she ever will. There have been to many counts against Regina for Emma's peace of mind. That is nothing to the library's worth of misdeeds Cora has acquired in her undoubtedly long life and Emma is still finding out more. Emma is definitely not surprised Cora and Rumplestiltskin have history together. Nor that he was both Cora and Regina's teacher in the magical arts. _Guess it's true what they say about apples never falling for from the tree._

Apples. Now there was one saying Regina's family took way too far. Emma's quitting apple pie and apple juice and apple turnovers and apple cider and apple scented candles and apple apple apple anything...

_Apples...?_

_Oh._

_**OH.** _

_**OH HELL NO!** _

 

 

~MOH~

 

Emma screams.

She decimates the forest around her because she can't take her anger out on the woman and the beings who deserve her **rage**. The branches splinter in her hands as the trees withstand her meager abuse. Blood drips just as freely from her hands as the silent tears from her eyes.

Emma is a whirlwind of fury and agony and bitterness and sorrow.

Not for herself, but for a little girl separated from a loving father; for a man who struggled endlessly to provide the best life possible for his child and made mistakes just like any human; for a little boy she will never be able to bring herself to tell just how badly his mothers had screwed over a dear friend's family.

“ _How did you make that turnover, Regina?”_

“ _What on Earth are you babbling about now, Miss Swan.”_

“ _The turnover, Regina, YOUR turnover, the one you gave me that Henry ended up eating instead and dying. What apple did you use? Magic wasn't around at that point, so **how**?”_

“ _I don't have to tell you anything, Miss Swan. What's done is done and it didn't even work properly to begin with so why you are bringing up past events is simply beyond me.”_

“ _You used Jefferson didn't you.”_

“ _I will say it again because apparently you are deaf as well as mentally incompetent: Jefferson who?”_

“ _You must have used Paige as leverage, that's the only thing that would have gotten him anywhere near you. With the Hat already in your possession, you just needed the Hatter to make it work. Knowing you, there was enough magic stored to get the apple and ...preserve it.”_

“ _....Are you quite finished playing detective, Sheriff?”_

“ _One last question, Mayor Mills. What have you done with Jefferson?”_

“ _This time....I can honestly say nothing. I haven't seen that mad man since a few weeks after you first arrived. Now, if you'll excuse me, unlike some people I have an actual job that needs attending too as well as a mother to find. Good day, Miss Swan.”_

Regina was Emma's last link to finding Jefferson. If she had no idea where he was, no one would.

Emma failed.

The thud of her knees connecting with the forest floor is as dull as the pain she feels from the action. This pain is nothing compared to how Paige-no, Grace- will feel when Emma tells her about Jefferson. Emma has to be the one to tell her.

Grace deserves to know the truth from the woman who saw Jefferson last, from the woman who most likely is the one who...who...

Emma can't think those words because she has no _proof_ that Jefferson is...gone.

He's just missing from a town that is cursed with a town line the residents can't _cross._

Obviously he's just taking a vacation in the tropics or licking his wounds in a cabin somewhere that isn't in any of the inches Emma has scoured when she finds the time. He's not gone.

He's not.

The sound of paper crinkling draws her attention to the hand drawn poster in her pocket. Pulling it from the depths, Emma regards the child's drawing of a man with wildly curling long brown hair, smiling blue eyes and a mischievous happy grin. It's terrible in capturing the likeness of the man, but Emma can see the charisma in the colors, can see the devotion for the artist in each stroke.

Raindrops begin to obscure the ink and crayon, but no matter how far Emma hunches over it to shield the paper from the water the droplets still fall on the page.

_Ice eyes covered by scrunched eyelids indicating the pain from the teacher's kick only to snap open in shock when the glass behind shatters instead of holds. Then the eyes are falling falling falling from Emma's sight..._

How can Emma be expected to save everyone's Happy Endings when she can't save this one man, can't reunite this precious little family?

How can she when she has already _**failed?!**_

“ _You have magic. You can do it.”_

Viridian eyes snap open in shock. Before the betrayal and madness, before she crushed his fragile hope, Jefferson had believed in Emma. His quiet confidence had shaken her that day because this man whom she had never met before that night, believed that Emma could do the impossible. He believed Emma could save him. Could save his daughter.

Emma is scared.

No one has ever really believed in her except for Henry. Now everyone believes that she will bring back the happy endings, but not as Emma Swan. No, they believe in her as their invincible Savior.

Jefferson had believed in her as the Savior too, but also as Emma, just Emma with magic and power to save him and his daughter.

Emma felt her spine straighten, the rain on her face dry, her armor wrapped strong and solid on her shoulders. She'll find Jefferson and reunite him with his daughter. In the meantime....

She had some things to pick up.

 

~MOH~

 

Maybe it was a bad idea to give Grace one of her father's top hats as well as a copy of their story from Henry's book, but those are Grace's legacy as much as Jefferson's. If anyone deserved the keys to his Storybrooke home and these few items, it was his precious daughter.

 

~MOH~

 

Emma is never leaving Henry's side. He'll get married and Emma will live with him and his wife because she will not allow even the slightest chance of being separated from him. The kid will just have to learn to deal with that. She's also going to _murder_ Neal. Slowly, intimately, and when he's nothing but ash, she's going to do a damn _jig_ on his grave.

Right after she eviscerates Pan of course.

Unfortunately, Neal's two-timing whore was already killed by Pan's Lost Boys so Emma can't show the scheming bitch just how displeased an enraged and protective mother can be. Though, there is a certain sense of poetic justice in seeing her ex betrayed by his fiance. If Emma was a lesser woman she would have been crowing. As it is, she settles for needling Neal whenever possible.

Oh! There is also the fact that Neal is actually Rumplestiltskin's son, therefore making him a resident from the Enchanted Forest and, AND! He listened to the relationship advice from a wooden puppet known _famously_ for his lying skills.

Those little tidbits make Emma's world simply roses and peaches.

Now she's related to the leather wearing crocodile (Hook's pet name fits, dammit. She's gonna use it, end of story.) through Henry's birth father. The self-same crocodile that sentenced everyone in Storybrooke to a cursed life by creating the thrice-damned spell. The same crocodile whose schemes almost resulted in Emma's death (MORE. THAN. ONCE!), did result in Henry's death (even though it was only temporary) and a whole list of other crimes Emma is positive would fill five volumes...the really thick legal kind for laws. If he wasn't practically immortal, Emma would have gladly shot him by this point.

As it is....

That explains so much about Neal.

Pan also explains Rumplestiltskin. Emma doesn't necessarily want to feel sympathy for the golden imp, however...

She knows what it is like to be unwanted by the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally. If she believed in a god, help her, because she understands.

_God above, send your holy angels and help me! I'm sympathizing with the cane wielding Imp!_

 

~MOH~

 

Hook's kiss is like fire and spiced rum and sandpaper. It's heat and heady and rough and possibility and...

_Wrong._

Oh sure, he knows what he's doing and yes, Emma is the one who initiated this whole incident, but...his lips are chapped from the jungle heat, the scent of his rum is almost overwhelming ( _his alcohol tolerance level is frankly astonishing. She's kind of impressed actually._ ) and he _really_ needs a bath. Not that Emma smells like lilies either. Those things normally don't turn her off ( _She's usually a few beers into her night off by that point_ ) and she really doesn't consider herself picky with her one night stands. Neal made sure of that. Use 'em and leave 'em, before they can leave her. It's safer, easier, comfortable for Emma. A controllable variable in a chaotic world. Those are just the easier reasons to reflect on instead of the truth. Especially after she had the real deal only to have it snatched from her fingers.

Because the truth is...

Emma kind of feels like she just made out with her brother. She allowed Hook to pull her back in for another kiss just to make sure on her end. Yep.

_Ewwwwww!_

_Something must be wrong with me. Hook is undeniably sexy and three hundred plus years of life must count for something right?Any woman in her right mind would take what he's offering me willingly. He's helping me find Henry. He's provided his ship as transport and his knowledge as a guide when this place clearly brings back horrid nightmares. He's charming in his own way, funny with a dry wit that I appreciate, and he's respected my boundaries which is so rare for me. There is no denying we have some sort of animal attraction. So why..._

_Do I see HIM?_

_Why do I feel the phantom weight of arms draped over my shoulders as a strong chin rests against the crest of my head, the warmth of a human body wrapped around me?_

_Autumn leaves. Earl Grey. Satin silk. Warmth. Comfort._

_ Home. _

_ **Why?** _

_Why do I feel like I am betraying James with Hook and yet, when Jefferson was draped all over me all I felt was like being in James' arms again? Sure the nutcase looked identical and sounded a little bit like James, but their essence is entirely different! Jefferson seems...younger somehow. James always had that old soul feel. Not to mention Jefferson's daughter, but then again, who knows what HYDRA could have made James do.... Argh! If I see either Jefferson or James, I'm punching them in the nose! The mystery of their existence is giving me a migraine!_

 

~MOH~

 

Emma hacked at the flimsy looking wood cage, denying the fact that instead of making progress chopping through all she felt was a painful tingle in her arms. If she stopped, if she acknowledged Neal's cries that her actions won't work, she'll cry because that means she will have to tell a secret and being that vulnerable before anyone especially Neal...

It's killing a piece inside her.

Eventually she stops because while she wishes she could deny for eternity, Emma has always been practical and Henry is still out there in Pan's grubby clutches. Neal is looking at her with big brown eyes full of understanding and hope and sadness. Maybe it's irrational but suddenly Emma wants him out of this stupid cage just so she could beat him into a bloody pulp. How dare he look at her like that after everything he did?!

Now she has to be vulnerable, has to lay a secret at Neal's feet to save him because he was too stupid to realize how well he was being played. He didn't deserve Emma's secrets. Neal didn't deserve to step into Emma's or Henry's lives. That right was given up years ago. Yet despite how much it burned inside, Emma also couldn't allow Neal to rot in this cage. Henry wouldn't have wanted that and neither would Davy, though her youngest would prank the living hell out of Neal if he ever learned the story behind their relationship.

So a secret as payment but which one to give? Everyone gathers a plethora of secrets over the course of their lives. Some are insignificant and easily revealed; others are larger and life changing. Looking at the cage, feeling the faintest brush of the strong magic keeping it locked even to her untrained senses, Emma realized the latter would be the best key.

_Damn._

“It's alright, Emma, you know you can tell me anything.”

 _ **OH SCREW YOU, NEAL!**_ Just as swiftly as it had come, the anger left. Neal, while partially to blame for this whole fiasco, was not worthy of her anger right now. Pan deserved every last drop of motherly rage Emma contained and she was going to be damn sure he felt it.

“When I heard you were here, that you were alive I knew I should have been happy. But I wasn't. I'm still not. I'm terrified. And I didn't realize until now why that was. From the moment I saw you in New York, the instant you stepped back into my life, I knew...There is a part of me that always loved you. Still loves you.” She watches as he ducks his head, hiding the obvious happy smile and hopeful tears. Emma is too numb to care. “Then in an instant, before I could take a breath you were gone again and all the pain and suffering I had pushed down for years came rushing back and I...I didn't know if I could go through it again. I love you, I probably always will.” Now came the hard part, because the previous confessions were small secrets. This is the big one and she will not be ashamed of her tears. “But my secret...is that I was hoping this was a trick. I was hoping you were dead.” Emma watches through the tears as his face crumbles into confusion and pain. There is a tiny part of her that crows in delight, reveling in the fact that NOW he knows how it feels. “Because it would be easier to put you behind me than to face all the pain we went through all over again. It would be easier for you to be dead than to explain to Henry why his biological father cannot and will never be a permanent fixture in his life. It would be easier to love Hook than it would be to face the confused and disappointed face of a ten year old who believes with all his being in True Love and happy endings. Kissing Hook, I felt the potential of what could be if I let go. Seeing you now, there's potential too. But I can't. You had your chance and Hook's only chance with me is friendship. You shattered me Neal and left the pieces scattered on the ground. A better man, just as broken if not more so, gathered those pieces and put them back together even when he couldn't remember his own name. That is Love. You were my first, Neal, the one I gave everything to. But you are my past. He is my future, wherever he is, I will find him and I will burn those who took him from me and my sons. There is a part of me that will always love you, but my secret for your freedom? I wish you were dead.”

The cage dissolves enough for Neal to crawl out and Emma meets his heart-broken gaze with rapidly drying eyes. She's given him the tears he deserves at this point. Anything more, he will have to earn. Neal makes an attempt to draw her into a hug but aborts at the last moment.

Emma's glad. Now there is nothing left to really keep her from getting Henry and going back home to Davy. The little rugrat has probably driven Ruby and Belle batty by this point.

He is his father's son after all.

 

~MOH~

 

_IT'S NOT FAIR!_

Emma doesn't care if she's being a hypocrite. This isn't everyone's Happy Ending. This isn't _Emma's_ Happy Ending! She just found her family and now...

It's all being taken away from her.

_**AGAIN!** _

_**Every foster home and orphanage and days on the street...Every day without any new leads on James....** _

_**IT'S HAPPENING ALL. OVER. AGAIN!** _

If Pan wasn't already dead, Emma would kill him herself. To hell with the consequences. That brat took over Henry's body, kidnapped Henry in the first place, and started this whole mess rolling when he abandoned his own son just so he could be forever youthful. The man made her sick! Now his curse is ripping Emma from any chance at having her real family and it's just. Not. FAIR!

She'll have Henry and Davy though. It'll be enough.

_She won't remember Storybrooke anyway._

There is a slight movement amidst the crowd that draws Emma's gaze. Grace is standing in the back next to the only parents she knew (now all that she has). Jefferson's top hat perches precariously atop lank, tangled tresses while the eleven year old clutches the printed copy of Jefferson's story like a teddy bear.

Emma would bring Grace with if she believed she had a leg to stand on that request. As it is, all she can do as the ominous forest green magic storm speeds ever closer is pray that Jefferson is already waiting in the Enchanted Forest. That Emma's suspicions are just that: suspicions. He will be waiting in their little cottage, tidying and readying the place for the biggest tea party the little girl will ever remember.

He has to be.

Because Emma is a coward. She can't tell Hook what she discovered in Neverland. She does not have the courage to let anyone else close to her heart. She doesn't have the strength to bring along a sweet little girl who is still separated from her father because of Emma. A little girl with too many similarities to Emma's own tiny boy. So she has to believe that Jefferson is waiting, because anything else...

Is pointless.

 

 

 


	6. Tell Me Would You Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War. Pain. Thoughts.  
> And lots of body parts with a healthy helping of gruesome imagery. Blame Hacksaw Ridge, twas the main inspiration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am an evil vile person and my mind truly scares me some times. Well, that and war movies, true war movies, not the pansy prissy ones like War Horse *which I absolutely loved by the way*. Oh and horror films. I cannot stand those! ...So why am I writing this? Aiyah!  
> Any-ma-who, if you want more of an AN, check out this chapter on FFN. This version of the chapter is also slightly different from FFN's chapter, as in, different song and title choice. I'm waiting on my beta reader to get through finals which basically translates to I'm working and lazy. Other than that the chapters are identical. Let me know what y'all think! And a big warm squeezy hug to all those who have given kudos and reviews!  
> Smooches to you wonderful brilliant people!

**CHAPTER FIVE: TELL ME WOULD YOU KILL**

 

No matter how many times that you told me you wanted to leave  
No matter how many breaths that you took you still couldn't breathe  
No matter how many nights that you'd lie wide awake  
to the sound of the poison rain

Where did you go?  
Where did you go?  
Where did you go...?

(Heartbeat, a heartbeat  
I need a heartbeat, a hearbeat )

Tell me would you kill to save a life?  
Tell me would you kill to prove you're right?  
Crash, crash, burn, let it all burn  
This hurricane's chasing us all underground

No matter how many deaths that I die, I will never forget  
No matter how many lives that I live, I will never regret  
There is a fire inside of this heart  
and a riot about to explode into flames

 **Hurricane – 30 Seconds to Mars**  
  


 

London is dreary, wet, and shades of grey Bucky didn't even know existed. The military base - _location strictly classified-_ Bucky found himself and the 107th stationed at is located on a sprawling park that Bucky is positive would actually be quite beautiful if the sun ever decided to show its face. The war is already demoralizing enough; Bucky really didn't need the English weather patterns adding more to his fellow men. Thankfully their stay in England would be temporary. Bucky had received word that the 107th would be moved out to Italy in two weeks. Which meant no more complaints about the weak English drinks, the uptight propriety of the women, the ridiculous names given to food, or how some men have claimed to see mold actually growing before their eyes (Bucky may actually put more faith in that last complaint). Simply no more repetition of English related complaints; Bucky could almost dance a jig in excitement if it wouldn't get him brought up on charges of insanity.

Bucky blinked. Now there is an idea! Get sent home on charges of mental instability, easy to pull off and Bucky could live with a discharge on his record because Bucky would _live_. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner? Bucky ignored the few soldiers that stopped and stared when he began to giggle, gaze fixed on a point they couldn't see. His mind began to calculate, plans made and discarded, ideas thought through and tweaked for maximum effectiveness because if he was going to do this, he needed to do it right the first time... Disappointed summer sky oculars zipped through his mind's eyes.

“Dammit.” Bucky sighed, the energy from his planning high crashing away to nothing on the rocks of reality. “Even all the way across a flippin' ocean and the punk still manages to give me trouble.”

Sergeant Timothy Dugan and Private Gabriel Jones watched for a moment as Sergeant Barnes seemingly lost his marbles. That bright spark of madness in the glazed ice eyes should have made both men wary or at the very least report to a senior officer on the state of the soldier. Instead they watched as he collected himself, sighing heavily and mumbling about some punk kid and trouble. When Barnes looked up and finally took note of his audience, Dugan and Jones said nothing but smiled sadly in shared pain before both men continued on their way. The war could get to the best of soldiers, even those who haven't yet stepped foot on a true battlefield. The thoughts and imaginations are enough sometimes.

Bucky sighed again. One of the best and worst things about an army: a man can't have a psychotic breakdown in peace without at least three other people noticing. He supposed that the fact that only two witnessed and didn't appear to be bursting at the seams to report to his commanding officer is a point in Bucky's favor. He is not going to examine what he's feeling as either relief or disappointment. Implications one way or the other led down a rabbit hole he had no intentions of exploring. Papers rustling drew his eyes down to the piles of paperwork he had been steadily making his way through.

With how much paperwork is actually involved in running an army, Bucky is a bit surprised the allied armies haven't tried burying the axis powers under the paper load. Pretty sure fire way to ending the war swiftly in his humble opinion. He can see the headlines now: **Nazis Crushed by Bureaucratic Paperwork.** His chuckle this time is decidedly less psychotic.

Bucky picked up the cup he had ignored to this point. His men and the rest of the soldiers might complain about everything English related but Bucky is of the firm belief that the English have amazing tea. Bucky is actually kind of in love with their tea; the first drop is ambrosia, a burst of flavors tantalizing his tongue. America could make a good cup of joe, but the British made a mean cuppa tea. He would miss it when the 107th would begin the process to transfer to the Italian base three days from now.

“Sergeant Barnes, Colonel Phillips requests your presence at the command tent.” Bucky waved at the runner to indicate the message received and waited until the young soldier left before downing the rest of the tea.

War waits for no man, not even a weary one.

 

~MOH~

 

“You wished to see me, Sir?” So far it had been a rare blue moon of an occasion for Bucky to be called to the office of a superior officer outside of promotions or being given orders for battle. He would have guessed that the latter was the most likely scenario in this case, except for the simple fact that he hadn't heard any whispers of an upcoming battle or movement of base camp beyond the regular happenings he heard daily. Army men are notorious gossips in Bucky's humble opinion, though the habit certainly helped prepare for unexpected situations such as this. Not that he had a lot of help in this case to begin with, beyond the scuttlebutt about the colonel.

Colonel Phillips looked exactly as Bucky imagined he would, based on the descriptions of the man alone. Salt and Pepper hair (more salt than pepper despite the man being in his early fifties) cropped military regulation short, frown lines deeper than battlefield trenches, and a presence that filled the open air strategy tent. Dark brown eyes latched onto Bucky's own bright blue, evaluating and judging. Bucky stood straighter. _Does he ever smile?_

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, from Brooklyn, New York, an officer of the 107th division. Extensive training in sniper positions, military tactics, exceptional hand-to hand combat scores, and impressive reactionary tactics shown during basic training. Leadership qualities shown are better suited for small forces; trainee has shown to follow orders in a larger group. Excelled in physical training, most often surpassing the markers of fellow trainees.”

Bucky swallowed, the nervous sweat he couldn't help chilling his skin in the cold English breeze. _Where is he going with this? I can't read him...Is this what a seal feels in the face of a shark?_

“Quite an impressive record you've got there, Son.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You Brooklyn Boys...are all of you so hard-headed?

“Ex..Excuse me...Sir?” Bucky is beyond confused and rapidly spinning into bewilderment. None of the guys said that Colonel Phillips rambled! The opposite in fact. If Bucky remembered their wording correctly, a wall was less blunt than Colonel Phillips. _So...WHERE THE HELL IS HE GOING WITH THIS?!_

“I had the recent...pleasure of meeting another young man from Brooklyn.”

Bucky's heart dropped somewhere into the realm of his toes. _Please, PLEASE, don't let him be talking about Stevie._

“Um...Sir?”

“He was a decent young fellow, I'll give him that, and if circumstances were better, I even would have gladly accepted him into my army. However, his purpose is suited elsewhere and so that is where I must look.”

_Oh, thank God. Stevie is still safe._

“I'm not sure I'm quite following you, Sir.”

“I'm going to be blunt, Sergeant Barnes.” _Please do._ “One of my four man squads recently lost their leader and I'm now forced to look for a replacement. I want you to be that replacement.”

… _.What?_

_No...seriously, WHAT?_

“Well, don't just stand there like an idiot, Sergeant. Speak!”

“Permission to speak freely. Sir?”

“Granted.”

“Wha' da hell? Ya wan' meh ta lead a four-man squad? Are ya off yer rocker?!” Bucky knows this isn't acceptable behavior in front of a commanding officer, especially this one, but...

HE'S NOT LEADER MATERIAL, DAMMIT!

“Ah, so you do still have accents in Brooklyn. After the last one, I was beginning to wonder if the young folk had done away with the famously charming accent of your hometown.”

Bucky can feel the twitch developing just above his eyelid. No one ever warned him the colonel was a sarcastic SOB. He's going to murder them for that little oversight.

“For your information, Sergeant Barnes, I'm not old enough just yet to require a rocker. So you and your fellow young officers can quit imagining me in my grave already. My wife does it enough at home as it is. I'm also very serious about my decision. I don't joke about matters involving my army.” _I call bullshit!_ “Now that you've had your little melt down and I suggest never doing that again in my presence, do you accept?”

Every. Single. One. Bucky is murdering all of them.

“Why me...Sir?”

“Because you are talented, Barnes, and I need talented individuals to help win this war. If my hunch is correct, and based off the other Brooklyn Boy I'm fairly certain it is, you are going to bring a lot of good in this war.”

“ _There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them.”_ Steve's words feel like a lifetime past but still Bucky is hit with a sense of guilt. Bucky has never really felt like the good man between Steve and himself. Sure, Steve has his moments of sheer bullheaded stubbornness and, Bucky can be honest here, his moments of being a..well, Steve can be a right little asshole when he believes his opinion is the best choice in a situation. His heart's in the right place and that's what counts. Bucky isn't sure he has the heart to take on that kind of responsibility. Not like Steve. However, fate and God had designed Bucky to be the healthier of the Rogers-Barnes duo.

Bucky examines Colonel Phillips. There is more conviction in this man than a mountain stone, but for a brief flicker of a moment, Bucky can also see the great toll this war is taking on him. He wonders if Colonel Phillips served in the first World War. He's pretty sure he did.

“I don't actually have a choice, do I.”

“No, you do not. Truth of the matter is, the Axis powers are gaining grounds on us, Son. Sad though it may be, we need all hands on station with every trick we can pull out of our asses in order to win this. Your records are, quite frankly, extraordinary and I don't give compliments like that out lightly. If I had the choice and the option, I would have been pulling you out for something much bigger than leading a four man squad. Unfortunately that particular option is now lost to us so we must make do where we can. That is where you come in, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky prays fervently that Steve is safe because Bucky....

Bucky is going to accept and he's got a gut feeling he's going to die. So one of them needs to survive this idiotic war and live out the dreams of their childhood. Might as well be Steve.

“Who will I be leading, Sir?”

“You made the right choice, Son.” _Glad one of us thinks so._ “Here are their files. Look them over tonight and you'll meet them at the airstrip tomorrow morning at zero six hundred hours.”

Pausing in his gathering of the files placed on the table, Bucky turned in confusion.

“Sir?”

“You and your squad are needed immediately at the Italian Campaign, Sergeant. I'm shipping you off to the Anzio battlefront under Major General John Lucas' command. I hope for your sake, Sergeant Barnes, that your group learns to act as a team quickly. I'd give you more time if I could, but I simply can't.”

“Understood, Sir.”

“Oh, and Sergeant.” Bucky paused, turned once more to face Colonel Phillips. “God Speed.”

A sharp salute, because the man got under Bucky's nerves in a way only his sisters and Steve had been able to in the past, but he had still managed to garner Bucky's respect. Dismissed for certain this time, Bucky left. He needed time to pack his meager belongings and go over the files of those now under his charge.

_God help them all._

 

~MOH~

 

Bucky has been living in England now (or as close to living as one gets when one is in the army) for coming on four months now and he's still surprised at just how cold it can get. Especially at night and early in the morning, such as now. At least the plane's engines give off enough warmth to stave off the chill.

It was also quiet. Not the chilling quiet before a murder or the quiet of the witching hour, but a calm silence that bubbled in patches and kept the white noise of the world at bay. His Ma always called this phenomenon a storm's preceding quiet. Bucky agrees that it is a most...apt description. Especially the brief respite it gives from the echoing screams of the dying, the wailing shriek of air raid sirens, the _rat-tat-tat_ of firing guns, and the earth shaking rumble of explosives that seems to have become a constant symphony in his ears. This preternatural silence of the World holding her breath was the sanctified stillness he sought when sniping. Everything was calm and he had control over this much at least in a reality spiraling in chaos. Nothing touched him in these bubbles.

There is nothing in the silence but Bucky, his rifle, and God.

“So, you're the one replacing Sergeant Johnson. I don't know, Gabe, looks too fresh a face to be leading us old-timers.”

“Speak for yourself, Dugan. The ladies still want me. You're the one going grey.”

Bucky does not startle. Nope.

Okay, fine, he flinches. But only a little bit!

“And you can't forget Pipsqueak here either, Dugan. That's just poor manners!”

“What's poor manners is your inability to remember that my name is Peter Coulson, not pipsqueak or shorty or short-stack or any other number of ways to comment on my height which is quite average for your information. You lot are just giants compared to everyone else.”

“But those are such apt descriptions of you! Or would you prefer Mouse?”

Standing in front of Bucky is his first squad. He recognizes them from the file photos but no amount of information could prepare him for the sheer differences between the three. Thomas Dugan, a fellow sergeant but from the 69th Infantry, is a bear of a man. Bucky can see why he calls Ensign Peter Coulson, fresh from training and hailing from the 70th Infantry division, short. Seeing the two side-by-side (helped along with Dugan's tree trunk arm slung over Coulson's average sized shoulders) brought into sharp relief their size differences as well as others. Like seeing an ant next to a boot.

Dugan was bright. That was the only way Bucky could describe the man. From the bright auburn hair confined under a jauntily tipped black bowler hat to the jovial yet also sarcastic personality, the man is light. It's refreshing in the war to find someone like him.

Peter Coulson is both the youngest of Bucky's squad at seventeen years of age and the antithesis of Dugan. He's dark where Dugan is light. This conclusion does not come from his appearance either. The kid has sandy blonde hair kept in control underneath his military hat, while his uniform is just as drab olive green as Bucky's and a thousand other soldiers' uniforms. No, Bucky's assessment is based on the boy's movements, how he is reacting in a blase manner to Dugan's and Jones' teasing, the way his dark brown eyes asses everything around him in a way that cries experience in identifying threats. Despite the horrible implications in that last observation, Bucky can see just the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Peter Coulson is stronger than he looked and that is very good in Bucky's opinion.

Private Gabriel Jones is the middle ground between Couslon and Dugan. Even as Bucky watched, he parried Dugan's teasing with equal wit yet his body language spoke of a serious soul, a man who knew the time and place to lose humor in trade for solemn concentration. Bucky is under no illusions that Jones had not come across opposition regarding his race, but the only opinion he placed was on how well Jones got along with Bucky himself and the rest of the squad. So far, things are looking promising for the little group. Jones and Dugan were already from the original squad so their familiarity with each others movements is a relief off Bucky's shoulders. Like Bucky himself however, Coulson is new to the dynamic as well. Whether that will be good or bad, it is still too early for Bucky to accurately assume.

All in all, things are going to be interesting.

“To answer your earlier question, Sergeant Dugan, yes I am the replacement leader. Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th Infantry Regiment, a pleasure to meet you gentlemen. Call me Bucky around the camps and leave the formal crap for around superior officers or the battlefield. Now, I think the flight crew is just about ready for us so what say you all to getting to know each other better on the flight to Anzio?”

A round of assents later, Bucky finds himself flying to Italy with the daunting task of getting four men into a working unit. Looking out at the brightening sky, he allows himself a moment to miss his family and Steve. He prays they are still doing well. That's all he can really do anymore.

Pray and hope and survive another night.

 

~MOH~

 

 

Anzio is warmer than England and despite there being no discernible vineyards anywhere near the American base camp, Bucky swears he can smell sun warmed grapes and fruity wines. It's a heady, comforting scent actually despite Bucky never really enjoying wine (he's more of a whiskey and bourbon fella) and never having visited a vineyard before in his life. It's a scent that remarkably reminds him of home. He absolutely loves it. Italy is his new favorite place to be....

When it's not exploding around him that is.

Bucky feels like he's back at Coney Island with Steve, the roller-coaster twisting and turning under him in stomach-churning velocities. Their plane had barely touched down before the Major-General was ordering Bucky's squad to the battlefield. Every time Bucky ducks for cover, he thanks God that he had the foresight to discuss possible attack patterns for the squad. It isn't elegant, their movements are more reminiscent of a dying duck on a frozen pond than an efficient killing unit, but they aren't dead yet and that is what counts.

Jones carries their communications equipment, delivering orders from higher command and relaying the squad's perspective of the battle whenever there is a moment of breathing room. Dugan covers his six, the heavy artillery of their squad and almost as good a crack shot as Bucky himself. He's never far from Jones, the sound of his rifle lost within the thousands of others firing. But the bowler hat is one of the best if most impractical beacons Bucky has come across and watching it bob along the battlefield is Bucky's sign that the wearer still lives.

Coulson is covering Bucky's back and doing a remarkable job it it as well. Once they had received the order from the commanding officer to fight, Bucky had turned to Coulson, their youngest and therefore weakest chain, and ordered the boy to stay on his ass like it is made of gold. The kid reminded Bucky of a more serious Steve and that, more than anything, caused his heart to stutter with every close call. If Bucky couldn't protect Steve in Brooklyn, he's sure as death going to protect Peter Coulson in this stupid war.

Except...Coulson seems to be a ghost with the way he flickers across the battlefield. There one moment, gone the next. He's still staying close to Bucky as ordered, but Bucky will focus on an incoming target and Coulson will pop out of a fox hole on the enemies flank, gun blazing and dirtied face blank. Bucky never even saw the boy move and even as he takes a few seconds to wonder how the hell that happened, Coulson is once more at Bucky's back. It's a little disconcerting for Bucky because he _recognizes_ the movements as something he had developed and used in his own military training. For Coulson to also be incorporating it means he had been at Camp McCoy as well or the training regiment Bucky had half-jokingly designed on a whim was implemented quicker than Bucky thought possible.

He's not sure whether to be flattered or not. In either case, it's keeping Coulson alive and that is all that matters in Bucky's book.

 

 

~MOH~

 

Bucky hates being in any reinforcement waves after the first initial battle contact. Not because he's itching to be one of the first to draw Nazi blood, but because of what greets the reinforcement troops as soon as they enter the battlefield.

Bodies. Mounds and patches and speckles of bodies, whole or in pieces, lay upon the ground or each other. Axis or Allied didn't matter to the dead, the bodies still piled together in a macabre facsimile of life, as if they were seeking out that last little bit of warmth before the ice of death gripped them eternally. That was not the worst bit of the scene that _always_ greeted Bucky and his men when they were stationed as reinforcements. The worst was partly the stench, rotted and metallic and absolutely stomach turning as it mixed with cooked meat and acrid gunpowder, partly the idea of death and how quickly it could come. Mostly though, it is the wriggling of maggots in the flesh of men he might have known not a few short hours ago and in men he will never meet. In daylight, the corpse feasting worms bulge and contract in masses of puss white on faces and arms and torsos and legs, anywhere and everywhere. The first time he had seen that, Bucky had been hard-pressed to keep from vomiting the rations he had consumed for strength. He wasn't ignorant of what happened to bodies once they were laid to rest, but the knowledge of before had a certain sense of detachment that kept the images and implications from fully registering. Out of sight, out of mind. Those bodies were laid in coffins and buried, the loved ones still living were not subjected to seeing the natural course of life. Out here on the battlefield, Bucky has no such luxury. These men were not given time to be buried before their still living comrades trampled over their remains in a bid to win just one more victory in this ongoing war. It's sickening and depressing. For many of the fallen, their families won't even get a body back to bury either because the remains are too scattered or too rotted to safely transport home. A folded flag and unfeeling medal are poor substitutes for the living.

Yes, maggots feature heavily in Bucky's nightmares now. But even with how disgusting it is feeling the squish and squelch beneath his boots as he stalks and treads and runs among corpses, there was nothing more horrifying than what Bucky encountered the first night as a reinforcement trooper. Even now, as the sun sinks over the Italian skyline, he dreads the coming night and not because of the colder temperatures or the uncomfortableness of sleeping sitting up in a dirt hole. Bucky fears the sounds. Noises that once he knew and dismissed as nothing more than nuisances to be ignored, to be terminated when necessary. Now, he is terrified of the dark and has been since that night when he mistook a tumbling piece of debris for a moving enemy and popped out of the safety of the foxhole, gun ready and trigger finger primed to fire. He left his naivety behind in that moment and lost what little rations he had managed to force down beforehand in the next second.

Rats. Hundreds in sight, most likely thousands on the vast stretches of the battlefield. It had taken longer than he would have liked to recognize what he was seeing and he never wished more that he had been faster to understand because then he would have less to remember. Dark fur patched and bristled, beady eyes glowing yellow in the moonlight and demonic red in the firelight, while wicked teeth rip and gnash and tear flesh from the dead. Everywhere his horrified gaze darts, the rats scamper, not one of them thin or scrawny. They have become fat off the spoils of war. The maggots had sickened him. The rats undue him.

Bucky is thrusting his body out of the foxhole before he even realizes the burn of bile in his throat, the acrid taste of half-digested food and stomach acid sour on his tongue as he empties his body into the already murky loam around their sanctuary. When he slides back into the hole, he is weak and quivering, body still rebelling against the scene he can no longer see but is now hyper-aware of. He has nothing left to expel yet still his throat convulses as his abdominal muscles clench and roil.

He wants his mother. He wants to go back to the golden warmth of his childhood where nothing is harmful or scary that can't be banished beneath the power of his mother's love. He wants Steve and he wishes for his Pa's protective strength. He wants to be back in his modest bed at home, just barely big enough for him and his sisters to crawl into together during stormy nights. He wants...

Bucky hadn't realized he was crying until his commanding officer at the time handed him the cleanest portion of the man's shirt, the best he could do for a handkerchief.

“ _It gets to even the best of us. Ain't no shame it what you done and ain't no man here gonna blame ya for losin' yer cookies. I've known plenty of fellows who up and walked, deserting this here battle that ain't even ours to fight. Those with wisdom don't judge 'em for their choices. Those who do cry themselves sick at night when they think no one can hear 'em weep and cry for their ma._

_The way I figure it, after seeing a scene like that, there are three types of people:_

_Those who are affected and run, because they can't handle the thought of themselves bein' the next on Nature's menu._

_Those who aren't affected because while their body may be livin', something inside them is broke and there ain't no fixin' that on a battlefield. They are the ones I pity most._

_Then there are those who are affected but remain strong. They are the ones who look at death and smile, not because they aren't all right in the head, but because they've gripped their mortality and accepted it. They are the ones who die the happiest, I think._

_Now the question is:_

_Which one are you?”_

The man died the next day, half his face shot off as he scrambled out of the foxhole. His blood, bone and general body matter peppered Bucky's own face as he shoots the Nazi responsible. Bucky doesn't run after that battle, or the next, or the third, fourth, twelfth battle he participates in because it goes against everything Bucky is despite the horror he re-experiences every single time he closes his eyes to sleep. He has something back home to protect and he hates war and he hates the stench and the rats and maggots, but he won't run. Drafted though he may have been, Bucky will fight with the will of a small man whose soul is too big for his body; he will fight with the passion of a little girl now a grown woman who fought boys four times her size and _brought them low_ ; and Bucky will fight with the caring heart of his mother because for every life he takes, another is saved and another mother will not have to bury her child/brother/husband before herself.

When Coulson sinks back down from where he had sprung up in the night to the sound of falling debris, his face ashen pale and brown eyes blown white wide in horror, Bucky offers a sad smile to the too young boy fighting a man's war.

“No one will think less of you if you left.” Bucky speaks just as quietly, just as kindly as his old commander, God rest his soul, once did for him. The night calls for nothing less. Those dark eyes focused on Bucky, some of the terror and pallor leaving Coulson's visage, replacing with questions and confusion and tentative hope.

“Well, some of us might!” Dugan piped up from a nearby trench, mock teasing tone roughened a tad from his own feelings of horror. If there was one thing Bucky was swiftly learning about Dugan, it was that the man covered up anything he found uncomfortable with snark and sass. Bucky found comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only one still affected by the sight. The humor, while civilians would consider it inappropriate and disrespectful of the dead, is a blessing. It means the war hasn't broken them yet.

“Says the man claiming to have a stomach of steel but still ended up puking at the first sight of maggots.” Jones playful tone carries a homey tinge of his native Georgia accent and that too is comforting. Bucky can only hope that he can have that kind of camaraderie with the rest of his squad. It brings fond memories of summer days running through wild flower parks chasing after Becky while Steve sketches the scene around him.

“Hey, those grub worms are nasty suckers. The way they wriggle and squirm– “

“Alright! M'sorry I brought it up. Please just shut up, for the love of all things holy, Dugan.”

Bucky chuckles softly but tunes the remaining banter fest out, focusing his attention back on Coulson. The kid is contemplative, but Bucky gets the feeling that he's not going to run. Coulson has a spine of steel like that. It's an admirable trait and one Bucky is glad for though he doesn't wish the horrors of war on even his worst of enemies.

Coulson is quiet when he speaks.

“While running would mean I'd live, it wouldn't really be living because I wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing that my freedom comes at the price of another's life.”

On top of being a ghost, Coulson is also a mind reader and Steve's soul-twin. Bucky mentally shakes his head. He'll never be free of iron souled, self-sacrificing underdogs apparently.

“There's no one I'd want guarding my back than our resident ghost.” The knowledge of what war does to the dead has loosened the kid's mask as he splutters indignantly over the description and Bucky vows to keep these fleeting memories of happiness close to him. He'll cherish each instant of laughter drawn in the midst of chaos and death.

Laughter is, after all, the best medicine.

 

~MOH~

 

September is almost over and the cold of fall is creeping closer with each passing day. His little squad survives their first battle together and the next in relatively good condition. This is good. They are also gaining a reputation of being a tad reckless in the midst of battle. This is not so good but not entirely bad. The battle they are currently fight has been going on a week now and Bucky's squad is part of a reinforcement division that has been fighting for three of those seven days. The division is low on everything, from men to medical supplies to rations to moral. Bucky himself is feeling the oppressive weight of hopelessness building within. He can see it in the droop of Dugan's mouth, no longer a bright permanent smirk that shouts mischief. Despair begins to quieten Jones spirit, his face resting in a blank canvas position while his wit drops from any conversation. Coulson is still much the same on the outside, but his eyes are rage and fire, smoldering before lashing out at any nearby target.

There is chaos everywhere making it hard to keep track of his team. He already lost track of Jones and Dugan somewhere in this mad hell, but thank all that's holy, he managed to keep on eye on Coulson's position. Peter Coulson is still extremely to young in Bucky's mind to be going through this, barely seventeen and eager to prove himself. But War never accounted for age or youth or innocence. Bucky will give him this though, during a battle, the kid is unflappable. The night and its horror will always be a different story.

A high pitched _familiar_ whistle has Bucky grasping the back of Couslon's uniform and shoving him into the crater before their path. The ground rocked under the missile impact, loam flying and raining down on them. That was too close and judging by the screams, maddeningly affective. They need fresh troops gravely. Men are dropping like May flies, both Axis and Allies, but it feels like not enough of the enemy in order to call this battle a victory. Bucky fears that those much needed reinforcements won't arrive in time. There has been a niggling knot of trepidation roiling in his stomach from the moment he set foot on the field. Something will happen, though good or bad, he can't tell.

Really though, at the moment, Bucky's just trying not to fall flat on his face from tripping over the bodies.

Sunset is falling, making the shadows long and the dips and divots of debris more menacing. The Nazis are transparent in their final push of the day, charging and screaming with their remaining strength. Bucky admires their tenacity and hates their cause. He doesn't sympathize with Hitler and his ideals, but he does pity the young men just as trapped in fighting a war they have no right and every right to fight.

 _What I truly hate then is War and all its connotations._ His rifle is thunderous in his ears as one-two-three more Germans fall like trees cut down in a forest. Bucky ignores the mud and the blood and the bits of bone sticking to his body just as he has every day in every battle. _Just like I do, the Germans have family, loved ones back home whom they will never see again. What is the point?_

“GRENADE!” Coulson's shout brings Bucky back from the dangerous introspection, the quiet state he reaches in battle and where he can safely question everything. He shouldn't have even a fraction of his mind off the battle but he always does because it's how he copes with the steadily rising body count on his hands.

Bucky whips around to Coulson's position on his left, bullet already tearing through the face of the grenade pitcher. Then Bucky is left staring as disaster falls in seconds. Coulson is off the ground, twisting his body into a kick that connected with the grenade, which under normal circumstances Bucky would have found to be one of the neatest moments he's witnessed in this war if, however, the grenade hadn't exploded before it even cleared a centimeter from Coulson's left foot. Being the closest, Bucky is blown back in the shock-wave. Despite the ringing in his ears, he still hears the blood chilling scream over everything else.

Bucky scrambles to his feet, eyes frantically searching _wherewherewhere–_

_THERE!_

He's stumbling towards Coulson, ignoring everything but the small - _tiny, little like Steve, oh God! This could have been Stevie! No! Nononononono!-_ body rocking slightly and _screaming_. Coulson – No, Peter, wonderful sassy Peter – isn't that far and yet the seconds are stretching into eternity before Bucky is even close enough to see the damage.

He wants to scream with Peter when he sees.

Peter's left leg, the limb in closest contact with the grenade, is a mangled mess of meat, blood and bone from the knee down. His foot, completely obliterated. The upper left thigh is a mass of angry and blistering third degree burns as is the inside of Peter's right leg. Second degree burns twist and snarl over Peter's torso and arms, while what remained of his uniform smoulders on his body. Peter's face, remarkably, remained relatively unscathed save for some cuts and what would have looked like a nasty sunburn to those who didn't see the rest of him.

Bucky doesn't even know where to begin helping his youngest team mate. Precious seconds are wasting away as Bucky scrambles for a solution because dammit, if he's managed to keep sickly Stevie alive, he show as _hell_ gonna keep Peter Coulson alive. Dimly he is aware of Jones and Dugan arriving, of Dugan shouting for a medic, Jones crouching by Peter's head and trying to calm him. All Bucky sees is the flame thrower pack strapped to Dugan's chest. _THAT'S IT!_

“THAT'S IT!” Bucky didn't realize he shouted. It didn't matter when everyone else already was shouting and screaming. What mattered is that he knew how to increase Peter's chances of survival. Acting quickly, Bucky stripped himself of his gun and ammunition belt before removing his regular belt and using that as a tourniquet on Peter's left leg. The kid's screams grew higher in pitch when the already painful burns were compressed. Bucky hated doing this but the bleeding had to stop. The fire from the grenade explosion had already done a remarkable job cauterizing the wounds but with Peter's thrashing the thin barrier of melted flesh and fat had split open causing blood to pour from the open veins in the remaining stump. Heedless of the slippery blood, Bucky wrenched the hunting knife strapped to the small of his back from its sheath and handed it to a dumbfounded Dugan. He will never be more thankful for that impulse purchase on their last weekend leave.

“Dugan, sterilize this with whiskey or whatever the hell you have in your flask so long as it's alcohol. Then, I need you to super heat it with the flame thrower. I need this ready in the next two minutes.” Maybe it's the tone of his voice or maybe it's the hope that Bucky actually knows what he's doing, but Dugan doesn't question the order nor does he protest the fact that Bucky knows about his flask of whiskey. One way or another, Bucky doesn't care so long as it gets done because he is already turning to Jones.

“Jones, give Peter your belt to bite on. I don't want him biting through his tongue. I also need you to hold him down. This will be hard enough without him thrashing.”

By this point, Peter is swiftly growing paler and his screams are dying into hiccuping sobs. Grasping a section of shoulder that wasn't massively burned, Bucky gently shakes Peter in order to catch the young man's attention.

“Hey now, Mouse. Don't go fallin' asleep on us now, ya hear? Why don't you tell me how you did that swell kick?”

Bucky offers a gentle smile as the fever-pain bright brown eyes finally focused on his own. Crimson is staining Peter's mouth and there is a worrying rattle with each breath, but he replies. Soft and weak, but he still talks. Bucky, Dugan and Jones learn about soccer games and kick ball games in the alleys and fields of his hometown. Of Peter being one of the best in his high school before the war came and he joined. Bucky seethes. _Peter had his entire life to look forward to and now due to some greaseball German, he'll forever be maimed and in pain, if he survives at all!_

Dugan taps his shoulder and once Bucky turns ice eyes on him, presents the handle of a white hot knife.

It's now or never.

Dugan stands vigil, keeping enemy soldiers from them while also keeping a watch out for any passing medic. Bucky kneels partially on Peter's right leg, pining it in place while his free hand holds the left leg down above the tourniquet. The knife rises above his head, hissing and spitting from the heat. A white streak of light and the smell of cooked meat assails the four men's senses. Peter bucks and screams but Jones keeps strong and Bucky grits his teeth, rising the knife for one last blow.

Bucky's arms are bands of steel, placing all of his considerable strength into these two blows. The tactic pays off as with one last dull thunk, the mangled portion of leg is separated from the whole. It lies in a puddle of bubbling red oak mud, a gruesome twisted mass that Bucky now ignores in favor of critiquing his hatchet job. Peter has blessedly fallen unconscious and a medic has arrived, taking in the dulled but still sizzling knife and the clean stump. Everything is red red red and Bucky really hates that color now, but the medic is optimistic and that is enough for him.

Twilight is stretching over the land now as the medic carries Peter away, ducking and swerving around the thinning fighters. Bucky stands still, just watching until he can no longer see the moving figure with his youngest charge. The hunting knife is sticky and still slightly warm in his hand. Gunshots are getting fewer and farther in between. The nightly cease fire has come.

Bucky rages. Inside, his soul is ice and fury, replaying over and over the explosion and Peter's screams. Dugan and Jones place hands of comfort on his shoulders. He doesn't shrug them off but he does straighten. Bucky has never understood the point of war, of needlessly taking lives, but he does understand that the Germans have harmed someone under his protection. That he can understand. That he cannot and will not _forgive_.

“This battle ends. Come dawn tomorrow, this battle will _end_.” Bucky is cold and calm. This is fact and Bucky's truth. No more American soldiers will die in this battle if he has any say in things.

“What do ya need, Sarge?”

“Go around and scavenge any unused incendiary ordinance. Get any of our other boys to help. Check how people are on ammunition. If they're low, collect that as well.”

“What is the plan?”

“We're raining Hell upon these Nazi bastards.”

Bucky does not want to be in this War. He doesn't want to kill and his hands tremble in the dark in remembrance of the blood now staining them. But the Nazi's made it personal so now, Bucky is going to war.

_God show them mercy, because I'm not._

 

~MOH~

 

The mad plan Bucky had concocted worked. Gathering every explosive, every functional flame thrower, and working their way into fox holes and trenches as close to the Nazi line, the remaining American troops attacked at dawn. Those with the best pitching arms tossed the bags of explosives over the enemy troops while those with the best aim, shot and triggered the incendiary devices. The Nazi soldiers woke to a sea of fire cooking them alive.

Any enemy soldier that managed to survive was shot with great pleasure. When the Major-General learned what had been done, he attempted to give Bucky and his squad promotions. The three remaining men turned the offer down. All they requested was that Peter be given the best care. Medals and promotions mean nothing to the life of a teammate.

After that, they were allowed three days of rest and recuperation. Bucky spent it at Peter's bedside, praying and begging for the kid to make it through. He couldn't think or imagine Peter not pulling through because the young man was too much like Steve sometimes and seeing that...

Seeing that would make his nightmares feel real.

Dugan found a bar and drank himself stupid. Jones complained to Bucky about the whole situation whenever he came to visit Peter, but there was a certain undertone of understanding and sympathy in the dark skinned soldier. Both of the older men had been through more than Bucky will probably ever know. He's grateful though that they are standing by him. He feels so close to falling apart. He can't even imagine how Peter feels...

 _It's quiet again._ Dawn is just beginning to peak out over the tents of the camp, the brilliant reds and oranges are a stunning testament. Sunrises used to be one of his favorite times of the day. Now, he's too weary to appreciate them anymore.

A runner is walking up and Bucky eyes him. There's a sad look to the kid, like he doesn't want to give a message but must because it is his job. Crystal eyes stare, giving no indication of whether the reception will be positive or negative. A bead of sweat traveling down the runner's face is tracked slowly, carefully.

Bucky has had enough of this crappy war. Peter has been shipped back to the States, which means he'll live so long as infection doesn't set in. Bucky is happy for the kid; truly ecstatically happy. However, Bucky is tired of everything. Tired of wondering and questioning and wishing for things to be different. He's not going to question anymore. Every time that gun is in his hands, he won't allow himself to feel remorse. It's either him or them.

“Major-General wishes to speak to you, Sergeant Barnes.”

_I'm gonna make sure it's them._

 

~MOH~

 

For once, Dugan and Jones are together and easy to find. There is a mean game of poker between them and Bucky couldn't help the chuckle at the downright hilarious look of Dugan concentrating. With his red hair and drawn brows, he looks constipated instead of the fierce look he was most likely trying to go for.

The sound of laughter draws the players' attention to him and more specifically, the manilla folder under his arm.

“Where are we headed next, Bucky?” Jones may have asked but it's clear both men are ready to battle again, to take back a little bit of what the Nazis took when they injured Peter. There is a vicious smirk under Dugan's mustache. Bucky has a tint of unholy glee in his own eyes. No more kid gloves. No more questions. Come Hell or Heaven, war is riding the lands.

“Pack up, boys. We're going to Azzano.”

 

 


	7. The Devil and the Huntsman pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end of James Buchanan Barnes. Caution: Imagery may not be suitable for readers under eighteen. Torture and gore within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got fed up with trying to eek out the rest of this chapter (*glares at Buchanan and Bucky, who look totally innocent...NOT!*), so I am splitting it up into two shorter chapters. Eventually I may get around to combining it all into one long one as is the norm, but I've made all you lovely readers wait long enough. So here's what I have. Let me know what you think!

Key:  
::Flashbacks::  
=Buchanan/Winter talking/thought speech=  
“Talking”  
Thought speech

 

CHAPTER SIX:  
THE DEVIL AND THE HUNTSMAN

Young man came from hunting faint, tired and weary  
What does ail my Lord, my dearie? 

:: Pain.  
It's everywhere, inside, outside. Lightening and lava. Ice shards and red hot knives poking and flaying every nerve in his body. How much flesh is left for there to shred?  
There's a thunderstorm over the ocean and he's in the midst of it on a sandbar rapidly swirling away beneath feet he can no longer feel. He can't hear anything but thunder and waves and a high pitched screech like gusty wind through alleyways. He tries to reject the liquid copper filling his mouth, so sure that the sadistic scientist is no longer content with skinning him, now poison is being added. Just to see. Just to look. Just to know how his clock ticks, tick tick ticking away with the ocean waves. Tic toc goes the the mean, hungry Croc. Oh how doth his pretty scales shine!  
More pain.  
Why hasn't anyone turned off the tea kettle? The raspy, screeching whistle clearly indicates the water is ready. He misses tea. And sunlight. And jam on Ma's home-made biscuits. Tea time is here, tea time and white rabbits (Run, rabbit. Run Peter Cottontail, Farmer's dogs gonna catch ya tonight) and wicked beating hearts trapped trapped trapped in endless boxes. His head has fallen clean off and rolled away. No attaching it back again. Tea cakes and tea kettles and tea cups and tea trays, tea leaves darken and leave blood stains on china cups.  
Agony.  
“It is quite extraordinary, Herr Schmidt. Ze Subject vas already two times stronger than ze normal soldiers. Imagine if he had been healthy! Ze results from my studies of it vill fuel my research for years to come.”  
“Perhaps so, Doctor, but I am more concerned with your advances into the serum.”  
“All other Subjects perished by zis stage, but zis one...zis one is stronger. Ze serum I have created based on the left over notes and studies of your blood has grafted vell to ze Subject's genetic code. All zat is left is to see how vell ze serum takes to ze bonding energy. Remarkable! Ze others all disintegrated at zis point if zey had not perished during ze preliminary tests.”  
“And yet, there is something you are not telling me. What has you so concerned, Doctor Zola?”  
“I care not for ze Subjects, as you know, but if zis one is to be ze successful culmination of all my research...I fear for its mind, Herr Schmidt. Ze energy of ze tesseract is powerful, yes, but also unknown. I am one of ze greater scientists, but even vhat I have managed to glean in order to create your weapons of var....I fear I know nothing still. I do not know vhat ze energy vill do to its mind and its mind vill be ze most important part of ze final stages. It must be preserved if ve are to make a successful soldier.”  
“Fear not, Doctor. Fate works in our favor. Your Subject's mind will survive. After all, eighty bodies of the guards attest to his tenacity.”  
Screams, harsh raspy whistles of air over shredded fleshy tendons. The voices are an underwater dream and he is drowning in their truths.  
He's flying to pieces, shattering on rocks and scattering to all winds like dust.  
=WAKE UP! HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER!=  
There's a voice, different from the others. It's harsh, but not cruel. Manic but not sociopathic. It's a nice voice even if it's loud.  
=C'mon, who are you? THINK! Before you lose everything. WHO. ARE. YOU?!=  
Still loud. Annoyingly so.  
=Dammit boy, you have seconds! SECONDS! Before whatever that sadistic monster is pumping into your veins bubbles over and bursts. You must remember who you ARE before then or you're lost. THINK!=  
It hurts to think. Everything hurts.  
=I know. That's why I'll help you. Don't fancy being lost. Again.=  
Images in his head, playing like a silent movie in front of him. A woman and man, kind and loving and caring. Mother and Father. Four girls, young and all so very different from the next, but loved above all things. Sisters. A young man, blonde and blue and whole and good and ice fire and bigger-than-he-looks. Brother, best friend. A red haired bear of a man next to an ebony man with a strong hand on a smaller dirty blonde boy; a man in a red beret stands a little behind with a wiry older man leaning companionably against a tiny Asian chock-full of attitude. Brothers-in-arms. A woman with a head of fire holds the hand of a caramel colored girl, their faces indistinct; on the little girl's other side, a woman with hair spun gold cradles two boys with chocolate locks safely in crimson leather arms. Important mysteries; indistinct dreams.  
=Who are you?=  
Son. Brother. Friend. Shield. Incomplete.  
=WHO ARE YOU?!=  
“Sergeant....James....Buchanan...Barnes. 32...55...70..38.”  
=Good. Brace yourself; this is gonna hurt. Now, one last thing; what do you search for?=  
White rabbits dancing among a sea of crosses; hymns floating whisper soft on spring breezes.  
“It is time to begin ze final preparations. Prepare ze Machine.”  
“Of course, Doctor.”  
“Ah...Amazing...Grace...how sweet...the sou...sound..that saved a ...a wretch...like me...I wah..once was...lost...but now...am fuh...found...was blind...but...now...I...s...see”  
“Vell, vat are you vaiting for?”  
“N-nothing, Doctor.”  
“On my signal.”  
=Who are you? What do you search for?=  
“Sergeant..James..Buchanan...Barnes. 32..5570..38.”  
“Now!”  
“...'zing...graAAAARGH!”  
White and black and red and blue and blue and blueblueblueBLUEBLUEBLUE.  
He screams to release the pressure of pain.  
It doesn't work.  
All he sees, all he is, all he knows, is blue.

~MOH~  
Oh, brother dear, let my bed be made  
For I feel the gripe of the woody nightshade 

Everything ached. His back, his legs, his arms, his stomach, his throat, his eyes...yeah, everything hurt with a bone deep weariness that he never really felt even during the Depression. The closest approximation would be his days during boot camp. But even then, there wasn't this feeling of hopelessness to contend with day in and day out. Hell, he'd give his left leg to be back in the paradise that was the American Boot Camp. As it is, he is forced to slave and watch as those around him, whether or not they have been here longer, fall beneath polished Nazi boots. God above, he'd give anything to be back home when time was simple and the only worries in his life were keeping Stevie alive and his sisters from unworthy boys.  
A movement to his left tells him Jones is working diligently on their side mission. It had been a God-sent miracle when he discovered the Private's knowledge of the German language. Now all Bucky had to do was get Jones out of this hellhole alive and across enemy territory back to the safety of the American army. Easy as pie.  
God help us; we are all getting the damned kiss off.  
Somewhere to the right, Dugan is making his way through the third rendition of the American Anthem, off-key and the worse for wear with how often the guards hit him, but Bucky could never fault him for his tenacity. There had to be some kind of Irish or Scots blood in the large red head because Bucky only knew one other person just as stubborn.  
He can't see where his other cellmates are without turning his head more than is required and from painful experience any deviation is met with swift punishment. Again, he admires Dugan's tenacity even as his body flinches in shared sympathy when the constant singing falters in time with a meaty sounding whack. But he can hear them, if faintly, over the sounds of the factory work. Dernier's lilting french speaks rapidly and against all odds cheerfully, probably cursing the German guards and their grandfathers. Somewhere else, a posh British voice runs through recipes for various English foods. Bucky damns him for his choice of verbal distraction. Everyone is already hungry enough as is without Falsworth adding to the pain! Wilson he neither sees nor hears, which in of itself is not unusual. The kid has been here the longest of those Bucky knew and had some of the strongest survival instincts. One had to learn quickly the ins and outs of this torture camp, aptly named Helheim's Gateway according to Jones' eavesdropping.  
Samuel Wilson was one of the youngest pilots for the Tuskegee Airmen at nineteen, and according to him and those still left who had flown alongside him, one of the best too. But even the best had off days and the Germans only needed one good day to make a man's life miserable. Wilson had been shot down in the middle of his third dog fight and left stranded thirty miles behind enemy lines. He was five miles from the line when these Nazi-defectors caught him. That was in July. From whispered confessions during the short hours of rest, Bucky learned the boy's story. Sometimes it felt like it was too soon after Peter to be opening his wings to another fledgling, but dammit all if Bucky's ma hadn't claimed he had the biggest heart in all of Brooklyn. So when the periods of rest became too much in either eerie silence or chilling screams echoing to the cells from the laboratory, when his fellow prisoners flinching began to shake the bars or babbling mutters of nonsense began to rise in volume, Bucky told stories. He spoke of his family, his little sisters he loved more than life, of walking Becky down the aisle because even though their pa should have been the one to give her away Becky wanted her Bucky Bear to and no man could resist her. He told of his ma and her way in the kitchen, how often her and Máthair Sarah would chase Stevie and him from the cookies and pies. Harrowing tales of rescuing Stevie from scraps bigger than him or joining in to finish the job spilled endlessly. When Bucky didn't feel like sharing personal stories, he recited Alice in Wonderland, a story he had had memorized since he was seven simply from how often Becky, then Rosie, and finally Charlie would ask him to read the mad tale. He hated the story but they loved it and so he read. Now he recited because even he wished to be like Alice and escape down a rabbit hole, away from the terrors and injustices of his reality.  
A thundering crash shakes Bucky from his thoughts. It is in every human's nature to turn to the sound of sudden noises. This was no different. As one, every prisoner and guard swing their bodies and focus to the source, drawn like metal to a magnet. The air freezes in Bucky's lungs when the image finally registers. For all of Wilson's survival instincts, run ragged long enough the body will simply collapse and no amount of adrenalin can keep it upright. After months of neglect and grueling work, Wilson's flesh had finally given in despite the strength of his spirit. Bucky can't move; his entire being focused on the sprawled dark form of his young friend. Weapon cartridges create a halo land mine that does nothing to deter the two HYDRA guards approaching. Bucky is stuck, his mind flashing between the Now and the Then, between Wilson and Coulson, Samuel and Peter. There's a burning ache spreading from his chest that he can't make sense of but seems to correlate to the black spots swimming in his vision.  
=BREATHE!=  
Oh. Right. Breathing is something important...something required for living.  
The faceless guards are standing over Wilson, the hard cadence of the German language sounding like bullets hitting wood. They're threatening, angry and on a hair trigger response Bucky can feel between his shoulder blades.  
No..not again...please God, not another one...  
It's like time has slowed, watching one guard pull back a leg to launch into Wilson's unprotected side. The other kicks the body as it rebounds; more German words cracking against the walls. He's watching goons playing soccer with a young man Bucky considers a friend and is therefore off limits to bullies. Red is creeping to replace the black.  
Such an odd phrase: Seeing red. The amount of fury required to make that phrase applicable isn't an easy emotion to reach, yet the words themselves are used so lightly for such depth. I'm drowning in crimson, but I can swim. With all that armor? My enemies will sink.  
Maybe if the guards had been looking in Bucky's direction their fates might have turned out differently. As it was, they were focused on the weak prisoner beneath their boots and took no notice of the predator waking a few short yards from them.  
By the time they did, they were drowning in their own pool of vermillion liquid.  
And their killer raises his hand and darkness descends, sparks of firefly light showering down to cast a haunting glow to the Mad Harbinger of Chaos now amongst them.

~MOH~  
Men need a man would die as soon  
Out of the light of a mage's moon 

Timothy Dugan would never be able to pinpoint the exact moment he realized that the already bad situation had gotten incredibly worse. He, like everyone else around him, were too focused on the rage swelling inside at the treatment of such a vibrant young man to pay much attention to anything else. However, Tim had also been in Bucky's squad long enough by this point to pick up a sort of sixth sense when it came to his charismatic leader. It started with the first step, that much he could recall with certainty. Tim knew his teammates footsteps, had listened to the various ways their bodies adjusted to their environment often enough that blindfolded and stuck in a bar at a peak of business he would be able to pinpoint where they were and what their condition was at the moment. A practically silent warehouse with pretty decent acoustics was no challenge. Skills like this made him a good follower, a better shield, and a deadly force because he posed no threat to his companions in a battle by getting in their way. So yes, Tim knew how his Sergeant walked.  
That wasn't his Sergeant.  
Jones must have sensed something as well because Tim could see the quiet scholar warrior turn his attention towards Bucky a few seconds after Tim had. If the way Jones was drawing his shoulders up and his body falling into a defensive stance was any indication, Tim wasn't the only one feeling like spiders or some other nasty creepy crawlers was using his skin for an impromptu quick step dance routine.  
Tim isn't sure what is happening. Bucky's body is swaying, staggering like he's drunk or weak which, despite the piss-poor treatment, Tim knows Bucky is neither of those. Bucky's never been weak and this was no drunk walk. There is too much predator.  
Bucky is practically on top of the guards before they notice his presence (peripheral is shot to hell. Good to know.) and by then it's too late.  
Tim compares the next few minutes to watching a cobra attack. One minute the serpent appears harmless, staggering and tripping over his feet, and the next....  
The lightening fast strike that you know is coming but cannot see.  
Too far away to see the weapon but close enough to watch the arterial spray, Tim remembers the battlefields of war with fondness. There, the bodies were faceless and the cause outweighed the guilt. Here, the bodies are faceless masks of torturers and murderers. Out there, the enemies are killed. In here? Tim is watching enemies being ripped apart.  
Tim Dugan has never truly feared his squad leader. Bucky wasn't a very complicated young man: he loved his family, his country, his men, English tea, his rifle, and one cannot forget the dames. There wasn't a town or bar the army stopped in that Bucky couldn't get a date from. Tim was jealous and ever so slightly impressed with the charm the boy wielded. And, yes, Bucky's ability with guns and knives is admirable...okay, Tim has balls enough to admit that watching Bucky pick off enemy Germans like a woman picking flowers is downright terrifying. This was not that neat and tidy.  
It started out as a quiet mummer; a buzz on the edge of their senses that seemed to rattle against the nerves in the worst way. Almost like having sand in some...uncomfortable places. Or when missiles rip into metal structures or cars, the grinding, twisting shriek that shreds against the eardrums leaving you deaf and numb to anything else.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves  
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;  
All mimsy were the borogoves,  
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Tim feels the blood drain from his face. He doesn't need to see the faces of his fellow prisoners to know they're feeling the same thing: pure, unadulterated terror. This slaughter before him...Bucky predicted it, days ago when their group had first arrived. When the stories had first begun spilling from his sergeant’s lips, Bucky had whispered of times of black nothingness, times when his memory is missing and fear grows in the shadows of his best friend's eyes. Fear of and for Bucky. How the local goons began to shy away from Bucky's path, their faces like Death's spectre, crimson scars standing out harshly to his sight.  
:: “I ain't stupid. Even if I don't remember a thing, I did somethin' that spooked the toughest of Brooklyn's goons right fierce. If even the trigger men ain't lookin' ya in the eye and make sure there's a street worth of space between ya...well, there just ain't no reason to ignore the writin' on the wall. I do somethin' durin' these blackouts. Don't know what but it musta been bad. I just want all of ya to be prepared in case....so, I'm gonna give ya a trigger. If I start recitin', say, The Jabberwock poem, you get down behind the nearest cover. And stay quiet. Treat it like a wild animal. A half-starved wolf. Just...stay alive. Cause these Fritz bastards will set me off. They are worse than the bullies back home. It's just a matter of time.” ::  
Bad doesn't cover half of it. There is milliseconds between the two faceless Fritz that had attacked Wilson going down to whatever the hell Bucky is using as a weapon, and Bucky using the bodies as meat shields while he swings and fires one those terrible light-firing guns. As each shot disintegrates another guard, as Bucky looses both meat shields to returning fire and is forced to duck and dodge, the creepiest poem from an altogether eldritch tale bubbles and falls from the American sergeant's lips. Of course, to make things all the more terrifying is the fact that they, fellow prisoners and morbid voyeurs of this macabre dance, are only catching glimpses of what is happening. Bucky had shot the lights, plunging his section into a shadowed darkness that yawned before them like a beast's mouth. Oh so fitting a setting for the poem and its reciter.  
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!  
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!  
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun  
The frumious Bandersnatch!"  
The poem itself and the fairly graphic deaths occurring around them wasn't even the worst part. For Tim, Bucky's voice was the worst. The core if it still sounded like Sarge's Brooklyn twang, but now there is a deeper burr in the tone, a rasping rumble like one of the big cats at the zoo with a hint of something Tim had heard in the voices of Scottish soldiers. It was a dark sound with a light lilt that lent a maniacal edge to the words.  
“Je suis heureux que notre jeune ami n'utilise pas ce ton souvent. Cela aidera mes cauchemars à bien se passer.”  
Blank stares accompanied the Frenchman's statement.  
“Did any of ya catch what Frenchie said?”  
“Basically Dernier says Sarge is damn scary with that voice and he's gonna have nightmares.”  
Tim stared at Jones.  
“All this time I've known ya, and you never mentioned you spoke french? I'm hurt, Jones, truly hurt.”  
“You never asked.”  
Any more comments were silenced when the headless body of a HYDRA guard dropped into  
their midst. Tim and his fellow prisoners watched the slowly growing pool of blood before slowly looking upward towards the catwalk above them. Bucky was systematically ripping guards apart, sometimes literally as the group saw him use the railing to sever a man from his arm.  
“Ya know, I agree with Frenchie. Sarge is damn terrifying. I ain't looking at Lewis Carrol the same ever again.”  
Every prisoner listening in nodded as one.

~MOH~  
Men need a man would die as soon  
Out of the light of a mage's moon 

:: The blue faded away to black as did most of the pain. It was the lack of pain that woke him. Though he wondered if he was even awake. All he could see was a deep blackness, no hint of the blue that had consumed him however long ago he had been put under by the insane scientist. How long he waited in this darkness he didn't know, but then again, he didn't know much of anything to begin with. The darkness made for a disconcerting space and really, how can one know something when there is nothing to know?  
Okay, that made his head hurt. At least, he thought it was his head. It certainly felt like how he imagined a head would feel: heavy.  
=Also kind of floaty, you must admit.=  
He froze, spine snapping taught as a dizzying cacophony of wrong-right-he-I-we crashed against whatever the hell he is in this black void. That voice....somehow he knew that voice should not be here. At least, not in this way. Though which way that voice was supposed to be was another point in the Things-He-Doesn't-Know column. He's really starting to hate that list, mostly because it doesn't seem to stop growing.  
=Don't hurt yourself thinking too hard now. You only have so many braincells left after Dr. Frankenstein out there has been at your body.=  
….Excuse me?! Who are ya calling dumb?!  
=Well, certainly not myself.=  
WHY I OUGHTA-!  
=Now, as we only have a limited amount of time in this place, might I suggest we get down to why we are meeting each other face to face.=  
He could feel a twitch developing over his eye. This smug, arrogant bastard was really starting to get on his last nerve, and he couldn't even see him!  
=That's because you are only looking, you are not Seeing.=  
What's the difference?!  
=The difference is something you have pushed out of your mind.=  
How does that make any sense?!  
=Perfect sense actually. I know you remember, just need a bit of a jog to loosen the belfry, as it were. The Lights, remember the Lights.=  
What Lights?! I don-Oh....those Lights.  
=Oh, good, your memory is not as bad as I had believed. Yes, the Lights you saw as a child.=  
He recalls the pretty multicolored orbs that would rise from playing children and artists at work. Steve himself had gorgeous orbs of navy blue swirled with aqua marine and spikes of glittering gold. Everyone he could remember having these Lights had their own unique colors but every single one popped the same: a riotous twister of rainbow hued rain. He could sit and watch the bubbles for hours, laughing at the interesting designs the wind would make in the rainbows. As he grew older though, his seeming fascination with nothing began to become concerning and he overheard well-meaning neighbors talking to his parents about getting him “looked at”. Even as a child he understood that nothing good could come from being examined by doctors for something only he could see. So to help ease any burden from his parents, he began to ignore the pretty bubbles and their inner color storms. He acted as normally as possible and eventually even he began to dismiss what he had seen as only the by product of an over active imagination.  
Now, to be told that what he had seen was real and, in fact, an ability unique unto himself, he felt sorrow and a bursting flare of anger for all the missed times and chances to learn, to train this ability.  
How do I See ya then?  
=Put aside all you know and accept all you cannot comprehend.=  
...Ya got that off a fortune cookie, didn'cha.  
=.....No...?=  
Liar, liar, ya pants on fire.  
All joking aside, the Voice's clearly embarrassed lie made a great deal of his tension fade and now that he is no longer as tense as a fiddle string, he's able to suss out what the fortune cookie crap is actually trying to say.  
Looking but not Seeing.  
Knowing but not Comprehending.  
Oh....  
Like soap being washed away by water, the darkness that had consumed his vision melted and he saw... himself. The man bearing his face exuded cocky surety from his artfully mussed curls that screamed recently laid to the half smirk with a hint of pearl white teeth on familiar cupid lips , a confident awareness of his own abilities in the relaxed but alert posture, and a barely contained maniac hyper-active energy in the dark kohl lining gunmetal eyes. A black, high-collared leather trench coat molds like butter to proud broad shoulders, brass buttons and buckles keeping the piece in place over a deep maroon silk shirt and onyx paisley vest. Fresh coffee ground colored leather pants tuck seamlessly into ebony boots with just enough heel to lend a bit more height for intimidation. Everything about doppelganger screamed predatory confidence. Then there was the room itself.  
He was standing in an exact replica of his apartment, down to the same number of cracks in the ceiling and the brown water stain on the wall with the noon day sun giving everything a bright, cheery tone, but where his front door would be, the whole wall was gone. In its place is a short grassy field on the edges of a twisted forest, an early twilight casting every plant and edge with a burnt umber glow, the shadows deepening into a haunting royal purple while a silvery fog creeps along the ground, wisps curling and twinning about like content cats. His doppelganger stands in the field, happy as a clam in the half distorted nightmare of his surroundings.  
Seeing this, knowing now what he had feared is truth, breaks him more than any experiment could.  
=Hello James. Call me Buchanan. We need to talk.=


	8. Tin Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Dean confront Tom and John about how they know or think they know Soldat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of warning for the younger readers (should there be any), Emma partially loses her top but it is in no way a sexual situation. Also, posting this chapter because, hey it's FINALLY done (glares at Dean who looks entirely unapologetic, the jerk) however, the story itself is going under some major overhaul. I really have no idea why I'm torturing myself with trying to churn out massive chapters. SO! When it's ready (I'm praying for July but we will see how it goes) I will post an Author's note as a new chapter to let all of you know to re-read the story. Trust me, I think you all are going to enjoy where I'm taking the story.
> 
> With that done: Enjoy and please, drop me a review saying what you liked, what you didn't like. Thoughts, feelings, good or bad, I want it all. It's all well and good to see so many people following my story and favoriting it but it doesn't tell me why and I would love to know what about this story makes you like it so much. Is it the characterization? The plot? What? So please drop me a lifeline and I promise to respond back. Just ask Banshee Queen Lydia, whom I send massive amounts of praise and love to because she is an amazing conversationalist and has given me so much encouragement and help, I never stop talking ha ha.
> 
> As a great Doctor once said:
> 
> Allonsy!

### Key:

::Flashbacks::

=Buchanan/Winter talking/thought speech=

“Talking”

**Thought speech**

 

CHAPTER SEVEN: TIN MAN

 

Hey there, Mr. Tin Man

You don't know how lucky you are

Shouldn't spend your whole life wishing

for something bound to fall apart.

 

Every time you're feeling empty

Better thank your lucky stars

If you ever felt one breaking,

you wouldn't want a heart.

TIN MAN – MIRANDA LAMBERT

 

November 6, 2003

Tallahassee, Florida

 

:: The dinner rush hadn't been quite as, well, rushed as Emma had made it out to be; she really just needed an excuse (even one as poor as that) to escape the glacier icicles from delving even deeper into her soul. Could eyes even be legally registered as weapons? The bruises on her back and left side were also starting to make themselves painfully known, so there was that factor as well. Still, the hours Emma helped with dinner guests passed quickly and gave her time to think on everything that had happened. To think on things that, up to this point, she had put off.

First: What had happened to Soldat to put him in such a state? Emma had no basis of his abilities beyond what she remembered as a child, but what she did remember painted a picture of immense strength, durability, and flexibility. Siniy Soyka was NOT someone who could be taken down easily. For someone or something to get the drop on him....did not bode well for anyone in Emma's mind.

Second: The Uncles reaction that first night. Emma considers herself to be fairly well-versed in body language and the expression on both men's faces that night had definitely been recognition. Also, every time she was in the same room as Soldat and either of the Uncles, it was like they were at the funeral of a dear friend, someone that died suddenly and shrouded in the greatest of mysteries. Soldat stumped the Uncles and Emma needed to know WHY.

Third: Siniy Soyka hadn't aged a day since she had seen him when she was eight years old. That just didn't happen. Thirteen years is a lot of time passing, he should be old enough to be her father and yet...he looks only a few years older than her. Though now she can appreciate the absolute sex appeal in every square inch of rippling muscle and strong jaw that she had missed as an innocent child. Yum!

Emma mentally slapped herself.

NO! Bad Emma. No pervy thoughts about the hot, possible lab experiment escapee currently occupying your bed.....

**Dammit.**

She could have kissed each and every customer for the work they gave her and the distractions from her thoughts. Well, more like distractions from the images her mind conjured. Emma did end up hugging the stuffing out of Dean when he arrived, which unbeknownst to her, caused a look of worry to flare across his face for the briefest of moments.

Dean returned from the library about an hour before closing time, and as was his wont, stayed to help with clean-up, limited as it is. And despite Emma's best efforts, she couldn't keep him from noticing the pain that had been growing since her mishap with Soldat that morning. It should have come as no surprise to Emma when once the last guest had left and the doors locked for the night, Dean's mother hen side came out.

Emma had leaned her forehead against the door after locking it, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning in pain as her right side screamed with every use of muscle, when Dean's large, calloused hand gently cupped her left shoulder and slowly turned her towards him.

“C'mon, Emmy, let me take a look at those bruises.”

She wanted to protest, truly she did because Emma can never be weak, always strong and able to fend for herself, but with Dean and her Uncles and dear Mama Charlie, she's never felt afraid to let down her barriers. Sure, she kept up her walls for a while around them, as she tested them for sincerity. Yet all things crumble with time and eventually this small group Emma calls her own wormed their way inside her heart. After a lifetime of disappointment and rejection, it felt so **good** to finally have people to call her own, who loved Emma, and helped her to the best of their abilities. So she let her brother figure guide her to one of the numerous tables and chairs, her tired body grateful for a much needed reprieve.

“A'ight, shirt off and I'll unhook your bra strap.” Dean handles the twin growls from the kitchen like a professional, pulling a chair up behind Emma's own and producing two jars from his jacket pocket which he placed on the table, before finally addressing the overprotective uncles lurking in doorway. “Ain't interested in Emmy like that, not anymore. She's like a sister to me which means I'm gonna take care of her. Have you ever tried putting ointment on through fabric? It doesn't work. Also, the growls while impressive, have nothing on some of the critters I've hunted.” With his piece said, Dean turned back to Emma, giving her a soft smile of encouragement. “Emmy, I'm turning around now so let me know when you're decent enough to start.”

Emma grunted her acknowledgment, already battling her throbbing muscles in order to pull her shirt over her head. It hurt certainly, a sharp stinging ache in various positions that rapidly faded into a pulsating burn that was equal parts fire and ice. Biting her lips against the pain, she wrestled with the shirt that had seemed just the right size this morning and now was too tight, until finally she popped free. Keeping the hand of her bad arm loose in her lap, Emma presses the bunched fabric of her shirt against her chest, keeping most of her modesty even as she bared the flesh of her back to the room.

A shudder raced through her body as the cooler room temperature brushed against exposed skin, goose flesh puckering and pulling at stiff scar tissue. The Uncles couldn't see her back from their position, but Dean would have a full technicolor view of her weaknesses. And it terrified her. Emma hasn't even trusted her uncles with the scars but this man whom she's only known a few short weeks...? There's just something about him that makes her feel like he would understand completely and entirely, that he would keep her secrets and champion her when she can't herself. Dean had a lot in common with her Sinyi Soyka, now that Emma thinks about it. Of course, she doesn't know much yet about her Blue Bird, but Emma has always been tenacious if nothing else. Really, her observations stem more from the spirit of the two men. Dean, her brother in soul, managed to wriggle his way through nineteen years of walls and boundaries within a few weeks. Soldat managed it in a few hours. Both saved her in some form or another. And she can see with each passing day a familiar darkness growing in Dean's hazel green eyes that was practically a foundation stone in Soldat's icy-blue. A haunting loneliness that came with seeing and living horrors very few can understand. Emma saw it every time she looked in a mirror. So they are equally a triad of souls Life and Fate have seen fit to shit on with the only saving light being Destiny taking pity on them and bringing them together. If Emma believed in those things, which she doesn't but sometimes it helps to have some kind of All-powerful entity to shout curses at.

A sharp spearmint type scent invades her nostrils, contrasted but not overwhelmed by an equally strong lavender scent with subtle undertones of honey. It smelled good though there was something that pricked Emma's senses as off. A sour, rotten stench that she was only able to catch the barest wisps of before the lavender and spearmint washed it away.

“Hey, Tom, can you fix this up into a tea? Just put a couple of the dried berries in a cup of hot water, let it steep. Should be ready by the time I've finished applying the pastes. Thanks.”

Emma listened to the soft rustle of plastic followed by jar lids unscrewing, the soft tap of glass hitting the wood of the table. These sounds centered her, chased away most of the nervousness prickling along her nerves. Dean wouldn't hurt her, hasn't hurt her in the short amount of time she's known him. He won't judge....

Please, don't let him judge!

“Okay, I'm decent....enough.”

It was painfully clear the moment he registered what she was presenting him. Like all the air had been sucked from the room, a creeping chill that dug deep into the marrow of her bones and refused to relinquish its grip. She could hear the sharp intake of breath through his nose, loud as a gun shot, a rattler's hissing tail warning before the strike. Emma couldn't control her urge to curl, no matter how painfully that action pulled on her abused body. Every instinct inside her screamed to run, to hide from the predator in the room. Yet...there was a distinct **juvenile** feel to the predator presence behind her, like a teenage lion only just growing into his mane, lacking the experience of an adult that sharpens his claws and flashes his teeth in victory. And oddly enough, that gave her comfort. That juvenile undercurrent spoke of a softer touch, a willing openness to accept where an adult would be too jaded by capricious worldly experience to forgive.

A long moment of silence passed, then another, and just when Emma couldn't take the tension anymore, her head beginning to turn to look at the man behind her, she froze.

The warm calloused tip of a finger softly brushed against the puckered flesh of a circular burn scar. Emma remembered this one, burnt into her shoulder blade when Foster Parent Number Five put out his spent cigar on her skin, smacking her face when she cried from the pain.

The finger moves, tracing a new jagged scar that ran parallel to her spine. Foster Home Seven, the wife flew into a fit of drunken rage when Emma tripped and spilt a glass of water on the floor, grabbed a carving knife from the block and let loose. Emma was lucky she was small as a child, small and quick. The woman was locked away still, last time Emma bothered to look.

Scar after scar, memory after memory, Emma felt Dean's fingers trace the road map of her life etched into her back. She didn't need to tell him the stories behind them, she could feel his understanding comprehension in the minute tremble of those questing digits. The way his breath hissed through gritted teeth over each new discovery. Each murmured expletive that struck out from his lips like poisoned darts, an undercurrent of longing for their true targets to be in the room instead of just empty air. And Emma could not stop the soft, small smile that tugged at the corners of her lips, did not want to stop the quiet tears that began to fall as she listened to a man she had only known for a short time promise heinous torture to the bastards that hurt her.

With a rough but firm final squeeze, Dean abandoned painful yet faded memories for the colorful new one that had blossomed all along Emma's left side, stretching from her shoulder down to her hip. The sharp crisp smell of eucalyptus grew stronger before Emma felt a cool cream being carefully spread. From every inch of skin Dean applied the cream, a warmth blossomed, easing the knotted muscles and loosening the tension Emma hadn't realized she had. She groaned, half in pain, half in relieved pleasure. Dean's hands, fingers, whatever, is absolute **sin**.

“You've...mmhhhmmmm.... got magic fingers.” Emma had no doubt she sounded downright obscene, moaning as she was, but...it couldn't be helped!

Dean chuckled, rich and warm and lighter then Emma has heard from him since their first meeting.

“Courtesy of a dad who'd come home with aching muscles and a distinct lack of contortionist skills in his arsenal to reach his own back.” There was humor thick in his voice, tinged though with sorrow. It's not hard to imagine the demons hiding in the man not much older than herself; the scars lurking in the memories of a boy left behind too often, of empty promises made by what should have been the guiding pillar in his life, and a childhood sacrificed far too soon. Emma sees those same demons in her own eyes. A soft giggle escaped her. Maybe there's a God, maybe there isn't, but it certainly has been an eventful month and a half. Her ice-eyed Guardian Angel has been returned to her and now she has an older brother who **understands** and for whom Emma doesn't feel the need to worry about as much. Or, at least, not the same worry that she had held for all her other foster siblings after Jolene. Dean could take care of himself. Emma didn't need to worry that he would fall without making his assailants seriously reconsider their life choices. Maybe it is a false confidence, but once Dean broke through her walls, Emma found her view of him seemed to blossom into a belief of invincibility. She knew he wasn't (all it took was one look at the cast and sling on his arm) but he exuded this air of untouchable **strength** that called out to the lost little girl within.

Dean made her feel safe, like she hasn't felt since she was eight years old and being carried like the most precious of gems through the snowy December night away from her monsters. Like she can escape the world and all the issues it loves to throw on her shoulders when she is wrapped in one of his hugs. It is a heady, wonderful feeling. One so lacking in her early development years.

“It wasn’t his fault. I got complacent, didn’t even think to check whether he was beginning to wake up or not. It was stupid of me.” She waited, breath baited and hooked after her whispered confession. Dean remained silent for a long moment, fingers never ceasing in their tender motions.

“Yeah, it was stupid. Ya could’a been killed, Emma, instead of just bruised.” He never raised his voice, didn’t thunder with righteous fury over her mistakes, but somehow this quiet reprimand was a hundred times worse than the most brutal of her many “parents”. Emma did not want to think about the implications this meant, that the roiling churning in her stomach was guilt for disappointing this brother figure who had worked his charm and wriggled a place in her protected heart. Feelings of guilt and other attachment emotions only made her hurt worse when those around her eventually leaves. But, God help her, she couldn’t keep them out, those precious few she allowed inside. Emma hung her head, accepting her punishment whatever it may be. “However,”

Emma’s head snapped up, turning around slightly to watch Dean’s face. He was smiling?

“However, ya made a mistake and that is part of being human. I can’t tell ya how many times I’ve screwed up in my life. Too many of those almost cost someone their life. A couple’a times it did. Guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s okay. Learn from this and move on.”

There was no stopping the tears or the one armed hug she drew Dean into. It was easy to ignore the pain that flared from her swollen muscles, to giggle at the grunts of surprise Dean let out, to snuggle as far as she could in such an awkward position once he finally got the memo and wrapped large, safe arms around her shaking shoulders.

“Don’t let this drag ya down, Sunshine. You're stronger than you believe. I haven't even officially met the guy, but I know how important he is to you and based on how he looks, his life story has both of our crappy beginnings beat. It's gonna take time, Emmy, tons of time and effort and patience that you may not feel you have left to give. But, you are not alone in this. I'm here for ya, the Uncles are here for ya, and I suspect they have just as much riding on your boy's recovery as you do. That said,” Dean pushed her back gently, bumping his nose against her forehead to indicate he wanted her to look at him. She did so, reluctantly. “Now that he's awake, you are not sleeping in the same room as him. Not until he's stable enough that I don't have to worry about him snapping your neck like a twig trying to wake him up from a nightmare or something. Ah ah, non-negotiable. This is the consequence of you not making sure he's still out.”

“But who-”

“I'll stay on the cot for now, probably more comfortable than the motel bed I'm currently sleeping in.”

“Your arm?”

“Good enough to hold him off until the Uncles come to my rescue. And that sentence never gets out, capice? Got a reputation to uphold.”

Emma giggled through the tears, his humor taking the sting out of the punishment. Dean had this way about him that made Emma feel like she had known him so much longer than the couple of months it had been, like he had been there with her in each of her foster homes. The looks he gave sometimes, or how he knew just when to reach out a hand to ground her in the present, made Emma think that he knew what she never said, understood what she could never tell. That the darkness inside isn't just a battle she alone fights. They hold the hug for a few seconds longer, before he gently pushes her back.

“Okay, Emmy, let's get the rest of this stuff on and then you go to bed.” Dean caught her eyes, green on green. “We good, Baby Girl?”

“We good, Pretty Boy.” smiles exchanged, Emma turned back around, catching sight of Tom standing in the kitchen doorway, a content smile on his own face. John stood just behind him, a porcelain mug clutched delicately in his hands.

“Don't think either of you have gotten out of this scott-free. Mmmhmmm...ooowww yeah, there's a knot! You two have secrets,” Emma pointed a finger at the two suddenly bashful older men, emerald eyes sparking fire, her free hand beating out an discontinuous rhythm against the pain. “ow ow ow! Secrets involving Soldat. You know him, or knew him, or something, but either way -Yeouch! Easy back there!- you. **Will.** spill.” Dean's warm chuckle at her back buoyed her spirit, letting her own bout of laughter bubble up.

“Anyone ever tell ya that you are one scary bitch when you wanna be?”

“Why, thank you!” ::

 

~MOH~

“Ya right, we do know that man, or Soldat as I guess he's going by now. But....it's not possible.” Tom sat at one of the many tables scattered around the diner, his large frame hunched almost comically small in the chair while his bear paw hands cradled an oversize mug of whiskey. John sat to his left, nursing a much smaller glass of bourbon. Dean and Emma sat across from them, her with a glass of coke, he with a beer.

“How is what not possible?”

“Him being alive.” John's voice is quiet, pensive. He hasn't looked up from his glass since sitting down.

“You are telling us that the man upstairs is supposed to be _dead_?” Dean's voice practically dripped with disbelief. And something more, darker, a tinge of fear under-lacing it all.

“Yeah Lad. It'll be, what, fifty-eight, fifty-nine years?” Tom cast an inquisitive look at John, ragged shards of deep seated anguish hardly contained in the syllables.

“Fifty-nine years in January.” There's a wry sort of broken humor in John's voice, a crackling symbiance to Tom's own hollow nonchalance.

Emma blinked, her mind mentally calculating ages. Dean was doing the exact same beside her, both startling slightly at the numbers. Emma caught Dean's good hand twitching towards the pearl handled gun she wasn't supposed to know he carried in the waistband of his pants. The way Tom and John tensed said that his movement hadn't gone unnoticed.

“Lookin' pretty good for a couple'a senior citizens.” Danger vibrated along vocal undertones, deepening Dean's youthful tenor. A shiver raced down Emma's spine. Suddenly sitting next to Dean didn't seem so safe.

“Wonderful skin regiment and healthy living.” John's dry humor startled a laugh out of the two young adults.

“Hands off the piece hiding in your waist band, boyo. We ain't one of those things your kind hunts. No demon deals or fairies or what have you.” Emma startled, looking down at Dean's hand which was indeed, resting on the butt of a pearl handled handgun. She ping-ponged between Dean and Tom, trying to see what tell Dean had possibly given to show that he had reached for the gun. “Oh, don't look so surprised. We get hunters through our doors often enough to pick up the signs. The lot of ya ain't exactly subtle.”

“The Cap was probably even less subtle than your average hunter.”

“Bull in a china shop that one. Sarge even said that for all his new found grace, his penchant for stumbling into things, whether it be trouble or a doorway, was still as intact as when he was ninety pounds wet and with a fuse length shorter than those of a bag of wet cats.”

John nodded, a fond look spreading across his face. “Sarge was always saving Cap. In those beginning missions, it became painfully obvious that dear ole Cap's spacial awareness was absolute shit, always missing that one HYDRA bastard primed to take a pot shot at his brightly colored back.”

“Then Sarge got fed up of having his sniper cover blown every time he saved the Captian's ass, because Cap would always turn and salute him.”

“Great, lovable idiot couldn't feel the enemy at his back but ask him to find his Sarge and that man could out sniff a bloodhound.”

“You remember that time with the documentary crew?”

“The one where Sarge had to cover both Cap and the crew because they wanted to get an up close footage of the Sarge/Cap dynamic and Sarge ended up having to take down, like twelve soldiers on his own because his cover was blown.”

“Yep. I don't think I have ever seen Cap so frightened. He was practically cowering beneath that shield of his. And that's nothing to say of the crew. That was the mission all war documentaries for the Commandos was strictly regulated to pre- and post- battle footage only.”

Emma and Dean watched quietly as the two old friends traded war stories. It was obvious their affection and kinship with each other and the men they spoke so highly about. However, they were also getting massively off course.

“So, hate to interrupt, if we could get back on course. You said you knew Soldat.... who is he?”

Oh, the look they exchanged, an eternity of sorrow and disbelief, kindling a fragile blossom of hope deep within.

“Your Soldat...we believe....I mean, no idea how on Earth it could be possible, but...he looks exactly like our old SIC.”

“And that would be..?” Even as she asked the question, something in Emma already knew the answer.

“Sargent James Buchanan Barnes, former ace sniper of the 107th, Howling Commandos Second in Command to Captain Steve Rogers, aka Captain America.”

 

 


End file.
